


Whatever I've Done

by Aria_i_Adagio, Verdin



Series: The Opposite of Falling [1]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existentialism, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Character Death, Multi, Novelization, OT3, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, poly route, semi canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2020-02-04 17:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 154,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18609253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_i_Adagio/pseuds/Aria_i_Adagio, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdin/pseuds/Verdin
Summary: "I hate half things, half heartedness, stupid false situations, inverted feelings, pumped up loves, and hand decorated hates. . . . I want things straight and clear or at least I want to be able to see where they're crooked and confused. Anything else is just nasty and so my life is nasty and I am ashamed of it. And I have an albatross around my neck that I didn't even shoot. I simply don't know how he got there." ~ K. A. Porter,Ship of FoolsAn extension reweaving, based largely on Julian and Asra’s routes and my own interest in seeing what happens when one changes genres from visual novel to prose narrative and can utilize a specific protagonist within such a compelling world and concept.  I’ve concocted and incorporated backstory, attempted to fill in some perceived plot holes with asphalt, trailed a plotbunny or two into the weeds, and thrown in a couple handfuls of spice here and there.





	1. Laughing with a Mouth of Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Verdin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdin/pseuds/Verdin).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by [Verdin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdin/pseuds/Verdin).

 

“Just like an amnesiac

Trying to get my senses back.

(Oh, where did they go?)

Laughing with a mouth of blood

From a little spill I took.

(Oh, what are you laughing at?)

. . .

And I can't see the future

But I know it’s got big plans for me

(Oh, what does it see?)”

~St Vincent

 

The absent moon moon leaves the night sky painfully dark.  Stars prick the black sky, but perhaps more brilliant for the absence of any other significant light.  I dread new moons. They only bring loneliness, a lacuna in my days that sometimes renders them as black as the sky without the moon.  Asra, my teacher, says those are the best time to begin a journey, and so, those are the nights he’s most likely to leave me. He’d stayed for two months, nearly three, since he returned from his last journey - longer than usual.  But this is the night of the new moon, and he’s been packing his bags since the middle of the day.

“I’ll miss you while I’m gone.”  His reassurance is hollow. He’s leaving anyway, but his eyes are always sad when he goes.  I still don’t understand why he continually goes off, and there's always the nagging feeling he needs to get away from me - that i’m too much, too difficult to handle for long stretches of time.  “Here. These are for you. Something to play around with while I’m gone.”

I take the small rectangular bundle from him and unwrap the silk from around it, hands suddenly shaking. Is he serious?

“ _Your_ tarot deck?  Why would you leave your cards with me, Master?”

I know I’m around twenty eight, or at least, that’s what Asra’s told me.  My earliest memories are from three years ago. Confusion, and pain, and Asra’s worried face.  There’s not nothing before that, not exactly, but everything there is a cloud of smoke obscuring whatever came before.  Since then he’s been my teacher for, well, everything, but specifically for fortune telling. While other things come to me as naturally as air entering my lungs, the meaning of the cards is something that lies somewhere outside, somewhere strange.  I can read a recipe for an herbal remedy and just _know_ the adjustments need to be made or spells need to be said to make it stronger, but understanding otherworldly things and telling fortunes - that’s Asra’s speciality.  I have a old worn deck that feels more familiar in my hands and that I practice with on my own, but Asra’s is different. The hand painted cards vibrate with magic that the silken prison can’t quite control and whisper with voices anytime I take them in my hands.  Sometimes those cards frighten me. “Do you actually think I’m ready to use _your_ deck?”

He sighs and folds my fingers around the cards.  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” I know he hates me calling him master.  That might be why I did it. He tilts his head down and for a moment his fine, white hair falls over his eyes.  Cherubic - that’s a good word for Asra - in both connotations, both a beautiful, whimsical youth and a fiery, many faced angel guarding the path to the tree of knowledge.  “And you know that I can’t answer that question for you, Dema.”

“Why don’t we ask the cards then?”  Asra never answers my questions - at least, not the important ones, the ones that I couldn’t just as easily find the answer for in a book.  Maybe the deck will be more forthcoming.

The back room of the shop is set up for card readings.  And, if I’m honest, equally well for the catnaps that Asra and I are both prone to taking throughout the day.  It’s my favorite room in the shop and often easier for me to sleep in than the single bed upstairs. Colorful cushions - colorful, worn, embroidered, beaded, fringed, silks and velvets and quilted cottons - are piled in two of the corners, tumbling out across the floor.  Lamps lit with magic are suspended over a circular table casting a warm glow on a purple velvet cloth that’s been repaired many times more than once. Tapestries cover three walls, faded in the places where the sunlight hits them in the afternoon. Shelves are build into the fourth, cluttered with knicknacks, and littered with old books that don’t actually have much to do with anything but add to an air of arcane knowledge and mystery.  A crystal ball that we don’t actually use unless a customer insists on such a thing and doesn’t seem to care that we’re bullshitting our way through the fortune sits centered on one shelf refracting the lamp light.

We settle at the table, next to each other, rather than on opposite sides, shoulders amiably close.  Something smooth and cool slides across my bare foot, then up my leg and into my lap, settling herself into a comforting serpentine coil.  Asra’s familiar. I’ll miss her as well, maybe even a bit more than him. She’s less _complicated_.  Her beady red snake eyes and cool body curling around me in welcome are my second earliest memory.  I shuffle through the cards and find the Devil. Asra raises his eyes.

“A goat for the Capricorn new moon.  Ambition, desire.” I explain as I lay the card on the center of the table.

“You have been practicing on your own, haven’t you?”

“What else am supposed to do when you’re away so much?”  Well - read _and_ drink too much and sleep too little or too much, but I don’t care to confess the second two.  I turn the cards back over and shuffle them three times. I pause and take a slow, deliberate breath before laying out the first five, two just underneath the Devil card and the next three in a row beneath those.

“First card, cost of achieving ambition.”  I flip over the card - the Six of Swords, reversed.  “Whatever it is, I’ll have to give up looking backwards and holding to the past.”  A strange card as I can look backwards all that I want but there is nothing there except flickering shadows I can’t quite make out and a hazy smoke that obscures even those.

Asra leans his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his folded hands. “And just what do you aspire to?”

I look him in the eyes and let the right side of my mouth curl into a half smile.  “Are you the only one who gets to keep your own counsel?” A good enough answer, but if I’ve honest I’m not even sure what my ambitions are, but I _can’t_ continue in this never ending loop of trying to recreate, reconstruct myself from whatever traces remain of my past.

“Second card, cost of failure.”  Another reversal, this time the Queen of Wands.  Upright, she would speak of place of personal integration.  But reversed, she’s the sign of fractured person, lost amongst the clamoring demands of others.  As Asra’s cards often do, she whispers in my mind warning of a never ending, ever nasty confusion, and the bitterness of being manipulated.  

I turn over the first card on the second row.  The Five of Cups, once again reversed, but in this case, not negative, even it is once again mysterious.  “How to compromise.” It speaks of resilience and recovery of meaning from loss, but how am I supposed to learn from the past - past pain, past mistakes - if I can’t remember any of them?

The upright Six of Cups appears next, indicating the nature of my desire.  It speaks of the past again, a longing for familiarity and the comfort of unquestioned love.  I let my fingers linger on the card and go still for a moment too long. Asra, with his infuriating, one sided ability to read my mind, wraps and arm around my shoulders and pulls me close.  “I’ll be back soon enough, I promise.”

Asra’s embrace is hollow when in a few minutes he’ll be leaving yet again.  I shrug his arm off my shoulders and flip over the last card quickly. In this spread, the final cards speaks to what one stubborns hold onto, to their own detriment.  The upright Nine of Swords appears. A mind forever turning back, turning back onto itself, onto old traumas, ever losing sight of what could be in the future. Asra’s lips are pressed together as he looks over the spread.  “You have a lot at stake.”

“And letting go of the past - that repeats, but how can I let go of something that I don’t have?”  Annoyed, I start stacking the cards back into the deck. They haven’t been much more help than Asra.

“They could be referencing habits, states of mind.  Sometimes the absent leeches all significance from the present.”

“Tell me about it.”

When I pick up the Devil card, a second card that had been stuck to the back pulls away from it, dropping back against the surface of the table.  Asra picks it up before I can and holds it out in front of us. This card has no figures, just the image of cliffs and a sun that is either rising or setting.  The Fool. A card for starting, or for starting over.

“They say be brave, Dema.”  

Asra holds out an empty hand, and I place the deck in it.  He sets the Devil card aside and then rapidly shuffles the deck with perfect, practiced motions before laying out five cards, the same spread as before.  He turns them over without narration, pausing only briefly between each card: Knight of Swords, reversed; Five of Swords, upright; Four of Cups, upright; Two of Cups, upright; and finally the Magician, reversed.  As with the cards I pulled, a theme runs through the cards that Asra has dealt for himself. Dangerous impulses. Ambiguity of whether a battle was lost or won. They speak to the danger of isolation from others and the need to let go of tightly held control. The reversed Magician at the end integrates the rest of the reading.  Whatever end Asra desires, his willpower alone will not be enough to obtain it. Not this time.

He leans over the table, drumming his fingers against the Magician.  For a moment, the rhythm of his fingers against the table obscures the sound of someone rapping at the door.  The knocks become louder, more insistent. A customer at this hour? We both look up from the cards and at each other.  Asra takes my hands in his. “I better leave.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. Fond - or, at least, I’d like to think so.  “Try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone.” The rapping at the door continues as he drapes Faust around his neck and takes his hat down from a hook by the door.  And then he’s gone, and I am left with his cards and a growing sense of dis-ease. The Four of Cups draws my attention. Asra’s deck is abstract - an iridescent fish with three dark cups beneath and a golden cup above, but the traditional cards depict a youth mourning three cups that have overturned before him, while ignoring the fourth full cup that an outside hand offers him.  And the Two of Cups placed in the position of the need underlying Asra’s goals is ironic; his actions are forever fighting any real emotional intimacy with another.

The knocking on the door continues, growing quicker and more obstinate with each moment I ignore it.  I walk back to the front of the shop and open the door, ready to tell whoever was there that it was past midnight, we were by no means open, and they could kindly fuck off.  The woman at the door - tall, head wrapped in an elegant silk scarf - pushes past me and into the shop without waiting for an invitation.

“Are you the cardreader?  I will not suffer another sleepless night.”  

Her voice is haughty, but there’s a nervous energy in how she moves her hands, twisting about each other, as jewel encrusted bracelets jangle.  A wealthy woman who expects her demands to be met, whether they’re reasonable or unreasonable, and regardless of the burdens they may place on others.  But I’m familiar - too familiar - with restlessness like that without knowing a way to cure it. If she wants someone to find a way to help her sleep she has _not_ come to the right place.

“I . . . um, I . . .”

“You must read the cards for me.   _You_ .  Your reputation precedes you.”  She unwinds the scarf from about her head revealing an elegant face, all clean lines and red eyes with an imperious look to them that convinces me that telling her _no_ is simply not a viable option, and I lack the energy to try anyway.

I beckon her to the back room.  She follows and takes one of the seats, her immaculate  silk gown contrasting with our worn furnishings. Asra’s cards are still on the table.  I sit opposite of the woman and begin to gather them up.

“What question do you have?”

“Do you not already know?”

I shrug and take the Devil card back out of the deck, replacing it at the center of the table.  I don’t feel like deciding on a different spread to use. Her eyes flick to mine with something akin to surprise.  “The Devil?”

“It’s the new moon in Capricorn.  The Devil represents goals, ambitions, and the lengths we’ll go to for their sake.  Unless you have a more specific question about what bedevils you?”

She shakes her head.  I shuffle the cards together once, then push them across the table for her to cut.  “Into three.”

She leans over the table, and errant locks of luxuriant purple hair fall around her face.  Once she cuts the deck, her hands hover over the cards before settling on one of the piles.  I pick it up and deal the cards out.

“These first two cards indicate what you will have to give up in order to achieve what it is you seek and the dangers if you fail.”  I turn them over for her: the Five of Cups and the Emperor, both reversed. She glances at the cards and then looks back up at me.

“Well?”

I close my eyes and let my mind drift.  The words come to me almost automatically.  “You’re lost contact with your home and those who truly care about you.  If you want to succeed, you’ll have to let go your self pity and the slights you perceive.  If you don’t, you risk becoming a tyrant, exerting power other others for no reason other than to indulge your ego.”

“Is that so?”

I open my eyes and meet her gaze, daring her to argue with me. “There’s no is, my lady, only might be.”  She lowers her eyebrows in annoyance and then nods for me to continue. “The next row suggests the way to proceed.”  I turn over the upright Five of Wands. The words come to me quickly, more abrupt than usual. “It’s necessary for you to learn to compromise with those you have been in competition with in order to achieve your goals.  But be wary of confusing your friends and your adversaries.”

“And what does the next card speak to?”

“What it is you truly desire.”  I turn over the Six of Wands. “You what success and public recognition, but the shadow side of your ego remains.  Make sure your acts serve others as well as yourself.” The woman touches a finger to her chin, contemplating the cards in front of her.  I pause, but she doesn’t ask me any further questions. “Shall I turn the last card?”

She nods.  The final card reveals itself as the reversed High Priestess.  Before I can speak, the woman trails her fingers lightly over the surface of the card.  “She was always my favorite.”

“A powerful card.”

“What does she have to say to me now?”

I close my eyes, the words don’t come as easily as the past two, but eventually the whispers reach my ear.  “You’re currently in a state of confusion, but if you listen to your deepest self, you already know the answers that you seek.”

“Is that so?”  The woman holds up a hand.  “Say no more.” She stands and walks out of the reading room.  I follow her back to the front of the shop. She starts to wind the scarf back around her face, then pauses and gives me a considering look.  “Your fortunes are not so different from others, yet there is something about you that piques my interest. I have a proposal for you.”

“Proposal?”

“Don’t be nervous.  I require little of you.  Be my guest at the Palace for a short while.”

“The Palace?”

“Ah, you did not recognize me.  That is . . . intriguing. I am Nadia Satrinava, Countess of Vesuvia.  Come. You will be afforded every luxury, of course. I ask only that you bring your skill with the cards.  And your honest interpretation of them. I have need of assistance. To solve the mystery of my late husband’s murder.”  

The Countess - that explains her manner, and why I didn’t recognize her.  Nadia Satrinava had been a notable recluse in the three years since her husband was murdered.  The city had continued in her absence, but only haphazardly. Multiple rumors about her traveled through the network of tea houses and coffee shops: she was a frivolous lush, a tyrant growing fat on the city taxes, a witch who bathed in the blood of her maidservants.  One statement, however, remained consistent. _Nadia Satrinava despises magicians and fortune tellers_.  What possible purpose could one like her have for me?

“I -”  When I open my mouth, I feel a nudge within me, much like when I hear the cards speak.  Consciously, I can’t think of a good reason to agree, or a good reason to decline. Might as well allow my subconscious the deciding vote.  “I accept.”

“I am pleased.  Until tomorrow.”  She gives me the kind of indulgent smile that I usually save for stray animals and steps out of my shop, climbing into an ornate carriage and leaving me in what for a moment feels like dust and ashes.

I close the door behind her, wondering why I had agreed to her proposal and what would happen if I simply didn’t go to the Palace. The spectacle of her arrival and demands - a demonstration of wealth and privilege - gnawed at me.  Down here amongst the hoi polloi, we have more respect for each other’s time and sleep. Still, a part of me was legitimately intrigued, and another knew that it would be sensible not to let myself get bored while Asra was gone, but a third part of me - whiny and indulgent - really just wanted to lose myself in a book and a few bottles of red wine for the next week or so.  Use the time without Asra around to make me do things like adhere to a relatively set sleep schedule for some try again at allowing my inner demons to go into combat with themselves. Not that the strategy had yet produced the desired effect of the demons destroying each other.

A voice interrupts my musings.

“Strange hours for a shop to keep.”

I jump, and my eyes dart around the shop, peering into the dancing shadows created by the hanging lamps.

“Behind you.”

I turn.  A figure, easily taller than I am by a foot and change, leans against the back counter of the store, wearing a beaked mask, bone white, red glass in the place of eyes.  A high pitched ringing builds in my ears, and my heart pounds in a chest that feels as though it is shrinking by the moment and. My toes have become roots, sunk into the floor, holding me in place.  The ringing in my ears swells to a peak, and - suddenly - I collect myself enough to dart for the back room. A door leads out into the yard a chance at to escape. Escape _this_ time.

The figure catches me about the waist.  I flail wildly, landing a kick, and the beaked figure drops me with a grunt.  I hit the floor hard, rolling and knocking my head against the door frame.

He peels off his mask and holds out a placating hand.  “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. At least, not that much.  How - how badly did you hit your head?” He kneels down and leans over me.  Under the mask, his face is pale and angular, one dove gray eye and the other covered by a patch.  He'd be handsome - perhaps - if he got a few good meals and a bit of sleep into him. He extends his hand toward me again as if to push back the hair that has fallen into my face.  Some distant part of me wants to let him. Instead, I curl my upper lip into a snarl and glare at him. The asshole shouldn't go breaking into people's shops - especially not wearing one of _those_ masks.  He sits back on his heels, looking stymied.

“Look, I only want to know where your master is, and I'll leave you alone.  My sources say this is the witch's lair these days.”

I push myself up on my elbows.  The room spins around me as I do, and I close my eyes, leaning back against the doorframe, silently cursing the man and the rest of this night.  “Why should I tell you anything?”

“Protective of him?”  He laughs, tries to at least, but it sounds like he heard that particular joke way too often to still find it funny.  “You shouldn't be. He takes what he needs and leaves you to rot if it suits him.”

I shake my head.  Mistake. Even with my eyes closed I feel like I'm underwater and can't find the surface.  “Asra’s not like that.” Shouldn't have used his name, and I can hear the s and the r slurring together as I do.

“Oh hell, either you've been drinking, or you did hit your head hard.  Listen, I know you don't trust me - and you shouldn't trust me - but I’d, um, feel a lot better if you'd let me see how badly you’re hurt.”  His hand pushes my hair out of my face. I don't move to fight him off. His touch is gentle; I don't think he has any intention of hurting me, at least not any further.  Besides, my mind is moving too slowly to recall any defensive or offensive (or really any) spells. “Damn. That is a bump. Really, I'm really sorry about that.” There's a rustling of fabric and his hand returns to the side of my face, bare skin this time, warm for a moment and then flaring icy cold.  As the cold fades, so does the ache in my head, the ringing in my ears, and the general disorientation.

I open my eyes and slowly rise to my feet, holding tight to the door frame as I do.  Grabbing the doorframe wasn’t necessary though; any effects of hitting my head are gone.  The man crouches at my feet, pulling a glove back over his left hand. He looks up at me and grins, auburn hair falling around his face in waves, a long-limbed gargoyle with a single kind eye.  “Feel better, my dear?”

“Yes.  Now go.”

“Ah ah.”  He puts a hand on the counter and uses it to pull himself upright, wavering a bit on his feet before he finds his balance.  “I’d still like to know where the witch is.”

“Wouldn't we all?”  I can't kept the bitterness out of my voice.  The man raises his eyebrows at me in surprise.  “I'd like for you to leave now.”

“Hmm.  Maybe we should ask your cards.”  He pushes past me into the reading room, clearly familiar with the layout of the shop, and sprawls in a chair that is too small for him, long legs extended on both sides of the table.  “He's redecorated a bit. That creepy skull is gone.”

Presumptuous bastard.  “There's not a magic I know of that's powerful enough to find Asra when he doesn't want to be found.”

He shrugs and loosens the collar of his jacket.  “Maybe they can answer questions the witch wouldn't anyway?”

“If I do a reading, will you go away?”

He turns in his seat and smiles at me.  “Promise.” He winks as well, but with the eye patch the expression doesn’t exactly work.  “So tell me, shopkeep, what do your cards know about the things I seek?”

With a sigh, I sit down across from him and shuffle the cards.  Another unwelcome guest with an unspecified question about some vague plan.  It’s a new moon in Capricorn indeed. Besides, that spread seemed to be at least relatively forthcoming tonight.  Again leaving the Devil at the center, I deal the cards on the table between us and and tap my fingers against the two in the top row.  Something tells me I should make him flip the cards himself instead of waiting on another to hand his fate to him.

The Page of Wands, reversed and the Eight of Swords, upright - the cards are particularly coherent this evening.  “Whatever it is you came to ask about, you need to quit wavering between your options and make a decision, things may turn out better than you think, especially if your intentions are pure.”

“Oh, it's very rare that my intentions are pure.”  He smirks at me, and I glare at him. A quiet voice inside me - not the cards, something else - wants to argue with him, to tell him to quit hiding behind flippant comments, but I quash it.  I don't recall ever having seen him before. What do I know of his intentions?

“And failure to act won't save you.  It will only leave you trapped in a prison of your making, a victim of no one and nothing except yourself.”

“What do the other cards mean?”  He pinches the bridge of his nose with his left hand and shakes his head.  Does he have the beginnings of a headache? It would be only fair. He's certainly been enough of one.  But still, those aren't the cards if a happy man. I touch the back of his right hand in a gesture of sympathy that surprises me at least as much as it does him.

“They're intended to help you understand how you might change, why you want to, and what holds you back.”

He looks me in the eye as he turns the card over, and I can see nervousness of his face.  Not a good night, not for any of us. We look down together and see a familiar - all too familiar face.  Death.

“Death.  Ha. Death cast her gaze on this poor wretch and turned away.  She has no interest in an abomination like me.”

 _Abomination_?  That’s an interesting noun to apply to one's self.  “Don't be so quick with your interpretation. The cards aren't literal.  Death symbolizes many things.” I pause and let my fingers hover over the card.  When I close my eyes, the symbol on Death’s standard from the traditional deck comes to mind.  A five pointed rose, a symbol of the eternal processing of rebirth, life spilt forth from an ever flowing fountain.  And beyond that, an ambiguous sun on the horizon. Rising or setting is a matter of perspective, but here, I feel that the rays of light are creeping toward dawn.  “Resurrection is the other side of Death. You have a chance to redeem what has been lost in the past. If you're willing.”

The man gives me an odd look.  Underneath my fingers, his right hand turns over - unconsciously, I suspect - and his fingers curve ever so slightly around mine. “Some things are not so easily redeemed.”

“Who said anything about easy?  Go ahead, turn the next one.”

The Four of Wands, upright.  “Harmony, balance. You seek a end to the conflict within you, but -”  The other cards are still whispering, tempering this one's relative felicity.  “That's something that you must choose for yourself, even if you are surrounded by others.  Yet, unless you're willing to take their hands you'll still be trapped on your own.” I pause and watch the subtle changes in his expression: the barest hint of an eyebrow raising in curiosity and then settling back into a stubborn frown.

“And the last?”  He turns over the final card: the Hanged Man, reversed.

“He reiterates what the Page said. You've contemplated for too long without making a choice.  And -” I tighten my fingers around his. “While your concern for others can be good, it also leads you reject what they would offer when it would save you all.”

“Hmm.”  He touches a finger to his chin and looks at me, an odd expression on his face.  “Have we met before? No, surely I'd -” His voice trails off, and he stands and straightens the lapels of his coat.  Intrigued by his response, I follow him out to the main room. “Listen, shopkeep, the witch, he's taught you his tricks, maybe he even cares about you.  But, when he returns, seek me out. He's far more dangerous than you know.”

“I don't even know who you are.”

He bends to pick his mask out of the floor.  I shudder as his movement reminds me of its presence, a visceral twisting, deep in the pit of my stomach.  Stepping back and to the side, I put the counter between me and the hideous, awful thing. He gives me an odd look, then tucks the mask under his overcoat instead of putting it back on.  “Julian. You can call me Julian.” He pushes open the door to let himself out and looks back over his shoulder. “I really am sorry that I scared you so, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and quote from St. Vincent, "Laughing with a Mouth of Blood."


	2. Wishing I Could See the Machinations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from LP, 'Lost on You'

Next morning I wake with a throbbing head and a nearly empty jar in the floor next to my bed. No label.  We got it as a little bonus from a happy customer, as mean a half pint of white dog moonshine as was ever distilled in backyard - perfect for my mood last night.  I only remember drinking the first three quarters of it, after my strange guests had left. I opened it up when the comments continued in my head, some from the cards, some - I think - from some separate part of me were too much, all of them, and I needed them to stop, or at least be silent, if only for a little while.  The cards stopped whispering unwelcome knowledge in my ears about halfway through the jar. 

I sit up with a groan, pinching the bridge of my nose.  At least  _ this  _ headache is one that I can get rid of easily enough, and one I  _ actually _ earned.  I stumble into the kitchen and run a glass of water from the tap, drinking half of it before rummaging through the cabinet for a potion designed to end the hangover.  The taste it leaves on my tongue is brackish and somehow sad, reminding me that the tank on the roof has not seen fresh rain in way too long. The summer drought has been relentless this year   I measure out the dose into the remaining water and toss it back like a shot. Disgusting. Foul tasting concoction - I could improve the flavor, but something seems appropriate about leaving it nasty.

I flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, waiting for the potion to kick in.  I wish Faust was here. When I'm hungover, she usually curls her cool body over my forehead while Asra tuts his general disapproval of self destructive tendencies and makes tea for me.  I close my eyes and cover them with my arm to block out more of the light. The ominous readings from the cards the prior night still bothered me, as did the stranger who had broken in. Something seemed familiar about him.  Something other than that ghastly mask. And the  _ Countess  _ . . . Shit.

I climb back out of bed and push the curtain back from the window.  Late morning. Still time to make it to the Palace. If I even wanted to go to the Palace.  I scrub my fingers over my eyes and turn back to the kitchen. Do I have a choice? I don’t need Asra’s cards to tell me that if I don’t get my ass there on my own, the Countess will send someone to fetch me. 

A large pot of coffee later, I’m sitting at the kitchen table with scrap of paper in front of me, lit pipe in one hand, and the window propped because Asra hates it when I smoke inside.  I scratch out a list of tasks I need to accomplish before leaving, as otherwise they’ll be out of my head before I can cross the room. No customers are scheduled to pick up orders; I can leave the shop closed, but I have a couple of tinctures that do need to be strained and bottled before they over extract, and the day after a new moon is the best time to start several others.

“Dema!”  My ears perk up when someone calls my name from the bottom of the stair.  Other than me and Asra, there’s only one other person I know of who has a key to the shop.  I shout back without getting up from the table. She knows her own way up through the shop and to the apartment upstairs.

“I’m up here, Artemis.”

Artemis is the only person besides Asra I really know.  And perhaps the  _ only _ person I know.  I have a handful of drinking buddies at the pubs I frequent, but those relationships have never extend beyond shared drinks and the occasional, usually ill-advised, hook up.  She’s a midwife in the city, a regular customer for simples and other supplies, and I don’t remember not having her as a friend. What little I know about my aunt has mostly come from her.  Artemis’s mothers had apparently both been her customers for decades.

She appears at the top of the stairs a moment later and sits across from me at the table without preamble, shooting a displeased look at my burning pipe.  “I wish you’d quit that habit.” I shrug and take another draw from the pipe, blowing the smoke out the window.

“Want some coffee?  Or tea? I can make you some.”

“Coffee sounds pretty good.”

I absently gesture with my free hand, summoning a second mug from the cabinet.  She takes the mug - not quite from the air, but close enough - and fills it for herself.  “I got worried when I saw the shop wasn’t open. Asra gone?”

“New moon last night.”

“Mmhm.”  She drinks her coffee without a trace of surprise.  I’m fairly certain that I’m the only reason Artemis tolerates Asra.  “For good this time?”

I roll my eyes at her.  “He left his tarot deck.”

“Hmph.”  She pours herself another cup of coffee and looks generally disgusted.  Tolerates Asra might be too strong of a phrase.

“More interesting than most new moons.” 

“Oh?”  She raises her eyebrow in interest.  “Customer? Or did you go out and finally find someone pretty enough to get you to dump Asra?”

“We’re not even -”

“- exactly.  He doesn’t pay you enough for the way he treats you?”

“He doesn’t pay me anything.”

She sets her mug down on the table and looks me in the eyes.  “And then acts like you’re some sort of pet. What would you lose?”

One of the two people who actually give a damn about me.  I don’t understand half of what Asra is up to, and sometimes, I want to smack him, but I’m convinced that he does care.  I take another very deliberate puff on my pipe, knowing that it’ll annoy her. “Want me to tell you what actually happened?”

“I suppose.  I still like my version better.”

With an exasperated sigh, I begin to summarize last night’s parade of events, from the card readings to the Countess and her offer - if it was indeed an offer and not a command - to come to the Palace.  When I reach the part about the doctor, her eyebrows shoot up. “What did he say his name was?”

“Julian.  Why?”

She breaks eye contact for a moment and mutters something about dramatics under her breath.  What does she know? “I think that you should take the Countess up on her offer.”

“You do?”  I let her change of subject pass.  Artemis is more forthcoming than Asra is about the past, but there are still things she won’t tell me.  Especially if she observes any sign of an impending headache and the ever looming prospect that I’ll lose track of place and time for several days from some hint of what lays beyond the fog obscuring my past.  And Artemis is very observant.

“Yes.”  She takes another sip of her coffee.  “A lot of things happened around the time of the Count’s demise.  Sorting those out - it might be good for a lot of people - good for you.”

“You aren’t going to tell me more than that, are you?”

She looks down at her hands, curled around the mug, then repeats what she said before.  “I think you should accept the offer. Besides, you need something to do other than day drinking.”

“You know me too well.”

“It’s hard to know you  _ too _ well, Dema.”  She pats my hand, smiling warmly, and finishes off the coffee, setting the mug aside and standing up.  “Well, chica, I’ve got patients to see, but I’ll be around if you need anything. And Sibyl will feed you if I’m not around.  You can’t just live on pumpkin bread.”

~~~  

I didn’t carry much with me through the streets: a small bag with a notebook and pencil, a change of clothes, a heavier jacket, and Asra’s cards.  Walking through the streets helps to clear my head. It always does, even when I have nowhere in particular to go. The pressure on the soles of my feet shifts with each step, and the chatter and clatter from the shops and houses around me, that living, breathing world so mindful of its own business, drowns out the roaring nothingness.  The road I take to the Palace slopes up sharply, resorting at points to stairs for pedestrians. Time passes quickly enough as I let myself get lost in the sun on my skin and the straining muscles in my legs. I should take walks more often, I know, but there’s always something to do to keep me from it.

The sun is low in the sky when I reach the bridge that leads over to the palace.  Two guards are standing at the gates. They cross their spears as I walk up. That was to be expected.  I just hope my thoughts don’t show up on my face.

“Beggars aren't welcome.  Keep moving.”

I straighten my jacket before answering.  “I'm not a beggar. The Countess invited me.”

The male guard chuckles and bends over to get a closer look at me.  “Her Excellency invited you? Are you mad, or just a liar?”

“I don't tell lies.”  My reply is a hiss through straight lips.  No smile on them before, but the way his gaze wanders puts him on my internal blacklist.  Not that I’d deny I might be mad, but I didn't hallucinate the Countess. That would be a novel experience; although, I suppose that I should never say never.

“Bludmila! Ludovico!”  The staring contest I've started with the guard is interrupted by a short woman who pushes the gate open from the other side and walks confidently past the guards, red hair bobbing behind her like an angry cloud.  “What are you doing? Weren’t you told that Milady has a guest arriving this evening?”

“Portia -”  The male guard straightens, but lowers his eyes in a submissive manner.  He almost seems a bit scared of the tiny redhead ? “We - we weren’t told to expect someone like this.”

“Really?  About my height?”  She walks up beside me and lifts her hand to indicate our roughly equal stature, then lifts a lock of my hair.  The overly familiar action startles me, and I edge away from her. “Strawberry blonde hair?”

“We were told to expect a magician, Miss Portia.  Not -” The female guard gestures toward me, clearly lost for words.

“A peasant?”  I offer. I know my fashion sense is essentially non existent, and the clothes I have on might be a bit worn, but really?  “Guttersnipe? Gremlin?”

Portia rolls her eyes.  “It’s a good thing that I came by.  Milady would be most put out if you turned away her guest.”  She takes my arm in hers, holding it too tightly for me to pull away immediately without being rude, and smiles warmly.  “Come with me, Dema. I’m Portia, Countess Nadia’s handmaid.” She leads me up onto the arching bridge. “Milady was about to have me take a carriage down to find you.  We thought perhaps you were expecting that.”

“A carriage?  That hardly seems necessary.”  I can count the number of times I’ve ridden in a carriage on a single hand.     

The moat beneath the bridge is more ornamental than defensive in nature.  Looking over the railing of the bridge gives me an excuse to pull my arm out of Portia’s grasp.  Golden fish dart between shelter of the floating lily pads that half cover the water below. Deeper in the water, strange, ghostly tendrils waver above the pebbles that line the bottom of the moat.  The undulating shapes are perfectly hypnotic in the still water.

Portia glances down and then turns, leaning back against the ornate railing so that we’re facing each other.  “Gorgeous, aren’t they? Do you like animals?”

“Hmm . . . yes, I like animals.”  Several stray cats had half taken up residence in the backyard of the shop due my habit of feeding them.  But it’s a maddeningly vague question. Most people like some sort of animal, or like to eat animals, but I suppose it’s well enough for polite conversation.  “Are those even animals?” 

“They are, but don’t get too friendly with those.  They’re vampire eels. If they latch onto a man they’ll suck him dry in minutes.”  

What possible reason could someone have to keep an animal that dangerous?  And how foolish! The castle moat connects in with the system of canals in the system, and while several watergates separate the moat from the canals, I can’t see how the eels would be stopped by bars placed at six inch intervals.

“But don’t worry, most of the old count’s menagerie is friendly enough.  Come. Dinner was almost prepared when I left.” She takes my hand again.  I try not to shiver or let my discomfort show on my face. She seems more friendly than overbearing.  Some people are just used to touching a lot. Even with people they don’t actually know at all. 

Portia leads me through the marble hallways of the palace.  Passing servants nod at her as we sweep through the halls at a rapid clip.  She guides me into an ornate dining room, then pats my hand. “Just wait here.  Milady will be down in a moment. I’m off to tell the kitchen to start sending up dinner.”  She disappears through a swinging door at the side of the room, leaving me alone in front of a long, polished table.

The ceiling in the dining room must be at least twenty feet high.  Narrow windows on the opposite wall are hung with long crimson curtains that have been tied back to allow the last rays of the setting sun into the room.  The wall across from those windows is dominated by a massive painting that portrays animal headed figures at a banquet. The table is littered with smaller animals, prepared for a feast that is overseen by a massive, red eyed goat.  Strange, but I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked that some animals are more equal than others in a palace like this. The painting is the kind of ostentatious piece I would expect from people with more wealth than they could possibly enjoy in a single lifetime, a vapid attempt to depict an allegory that the artist clearly was clearly trying to force into their art.  At least they probably got a nice commision out of it. 

“What do you think?”

I turn at the unexpected voice.  The woman from last night - Countess Nadia - stands next to me.  She’s dressed in loose flowing robes that have been gathered at her waist by a golden belt set with gemstones.  It’s probably what she considers loungewear.

“Of the painting?  It’s very red, my lady.”  Now is probably not the best time to run off at the mouth about conspicuous consumption.  Red seems like an appropriately diplomatic descriptor.

“That it is.  But do you like it?”

I shake my head; I’ve no inclination to filter myself when asked a direct question.  “No.”

“Bold to enter someone’s house and critique their decorating.”

“Pardon me, my lady, but I thought that you desired honesty, not flattery.”

Her eyebrows raise, and - much to my surprise - she smiles slightly.  “I do. Please, elaborate. What do you find displeasing?”

I gesture to the figures surrounding the goat.  “Look at their expressions. They seem ensorcelled.  They aren’t at this table of their own accord, and their pleasure is feigned - an attempt to please, to placate.  And the goat -” I pause, but given what I’ve already said, I might as well continue. “An odd choice to place in the position of a leader.  Goats are fearless, but reckless. They charge ahead with no regard for the consequences. A goat is just as likely to destroy as it is to do anything else.”

The Countess nods solemnly then sits in the chair at the head of the table, gesturing for me to join her.  “You certainly are fearless when it comes to speaking your mind. One might even say reckless.” 

Fidgeting with the hem of my jacket, I take a seat beside her.  The place setting is more lavish than any I’ve seen, and the opulence is more discomfiting than I would have predicted.  I had hoped to simply not be impressed. An unnecessary number of utensils surround a large gilded plate and multiple stemmed glasses dot the corners of the setting.  I have no idea what purpose the different shapes serve, or which the order in which I should pick them up.

“I’ll admit that I don’t care for the painting myself, but it was a favorite of my late husband’s.  He liked to see himself as a provider for the people.” The people, eh? None of the well dressed animals seem like they have much in common with the average person in Vesuvia.  The Countess picks up a delicate brass bell and rings it, waiting for the world to respond to her reverberations. 

The doors at the end of the hallway swing open.  A footman enters carrying a silver tray. He sets a bowl in front of each of us.  Portia follows him closely, bearing a decanter of white wine. She fills the narrower of the two glasses in front of the Countess, then the one in my place setting.

“Thank you.”

I pick up the bowl of soup and sip from the edge.  It’s chilled, rich with cream and crisp and fresh with cucumber, cilantro, and mint in some sort of yogurt base.  Refreshing and perfect for the summer weather. I don’t understand the need for so much tableware, but I can appreciate good food.

The Countess arches her eyes at me and pointedly picks up the larger spoon from beside her plate.  She delicately scoops up the soup and brings it to her mouth with a single smooth motion, leaving the bowl sitting on the plate beneath it.  I mimic her expression, but otherwise I continue to hold the bowl near my mouth. 

“As you must know, Dema, it’s been three years since we last held the Masquerade.  I’m told the people still remember it fondly.”

I nod over my soup, and continue to enjoy it in an entirely undainty and perversely pleasurable fashion.  I know that there was a annual masquerade in the city until three years ago, but I don’t have any memory, fond or otherwise of the event itself.

“I plan to restart the tradition this year.  The festivities will begin in thirteen days, but I find that it is necessary to first address the issue of why the event ceased in the first place - the late Count’s murder.”

I set the soup bowl back down on the plate.  The china rings harder than I expected from the impact, and for a moment, I’m afraid it will shatter beneath my awkward hands.  “My lady, I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“I need you to help me catch my husband’s murderer.  I plan to begin the masquerade with his hanging. Public.”

“A public hanging to begin the Masquerade!”  Once started, I can’t stop myself. “You want a display of public bloodlust for your opening act?”  No wonder she doesn’t sleep at night.

“Perhaps that seems extreme.”  She lowers her eyes and glances off to the side, refusing to meet my gaze.  “But the man must be brought to justice. He confessed to the murder three years ago, but he escaped.  For the sake of restoring a sense of order to the city.” The doorway swings open and Portia reappears, carrying a different decanter.  She leans over my right and begins to fill the wider goblet in front of me with red wine. “The guard and networks employed by my courtiers have failed me.  But I believe that your magic - and you - can help me find him and finally see Julian Devorak executed for the Count Lucio’s murder.” 

There’s a gasp to from Portia, and then the glass decanter shatters across the floor.  The wine creeps out, forming a slowly growing pool of crimson against the polished marble tiles.  My own hand clutches the stem of my wine glass, knuckles rigid and straining. The man last night told me to call him Julian and carried a plague doctor's mask.  But even the last name sounded familiar, even if I couldn't place it.

“Portia!  Whatever is the matter?”

“Sorry, milady, uh, slippery fingers.”

“No matter, my dear, don’t fret over it.”  Nadia waves her hand and two other servants rush in with towels to wipe up the worst of the spill.  There’s genuine warmth in her eyes when she looks at Portia - the first unguarded emotion I've observed from her.  She looks back over at me. “I don’t care for what I’m suggesting, but I believe it necessary. Think it over tonight and give me your answer in the morning.”  The Countess rubs at her temples then pushes her chair back from the table. “I fear this topic has left me with little appetite. You must excuse me. Portia, would you escort our guest to her room, and see that dinner is brought to her there.”  With that the Countess turns, her gown swirling behind her, and exits the dining room.

Portia looks over at me and bites her lip nervously for a moment.  “Sorry about that, Dema, I’m usually not so clumsy.”

I shrug and take a roll from the basket in the center of the table before standing.  The crust is crisp and golden, but the steam still rising from it suggests a soft interior.  “No matter. The topic was turning my stomach too. I’ll take this, but no need for a full dinner.”

“If you say so.  Come with me.” 

I pick at the roll I took from the table as Portia once again leads me through the palace hallways.  She greets each of the servants we pass by name, pausing once to inquire about one’s son and enthusiastically embracing them at the news the child’s fever had broken.  I decide to forgive her overly unfamiliar actions at the bridge. Her friendliness seems to be a genuine expression of warmth and concern.

“You must have worked here for sometime.”

“Hmm.  Oh no, not that long really.  I only arrived about a year before milady woke up.”   Realizing that she’s said too much, she claps a hand over her mouth.

“Woke up?”

“Well.”  She pulls me into darkened and dusty side hall.  We stop beside an even dustier stairwell. “If you’re investigating the Count’s murder, I suppose you’ll have to know at some point.  Milady was asleep for a long time after the murder. No one could wake her. Then, about three months ago, she just woke up.” She looks down at her feet.  “You won’t tell anyone that I told you that, will you?”

I shake my head.  Until I know more of what is a stake in this game, it’s best to play my cards close to my chest.  “Who’s been running the city?”

“The courtiers.  Mostly Consul Valerius.”

“That’s news.”  By in large, the Countess is blamed for the current state of the city.  The central districts were in decent shape, but the further from the palace one gets, the worse conditions become, and the complaints about the Countess grew louder.  While wandering the city aimlessly I had seen eroded embankments allowing streets and homes to flood. Alleys are filled with rubbish, and gangs of hungry children haunt the docks.  Of course, that’s not anything new - one of the few things that Asra has actually told me.

Our conversation is cut off by a growl behind us.  I stiffen in surprise, but Portia just huffs with annoyance.  “Oh, don’t mind them. Those are just the old count’s sighthounds.”  The sleek white forms weave around me, sniffing at my clothes. One of the two dogs looks up at me with mismatched eyes, one black and one red.  I crouch down and hold out a hand. The gesture usually appeases the strays I meet in the city. The smaller dog wags her tail. These two are far more appealing members of the menagerie than the eels in the palace moat.

“I don’t know if I would do that.  They’re a little unpredictable. Someone must have forgotten to give them their chamomile cakes.  Just stay here, I’ll be right back.” 

Portia runs off, muttering something about the dogs being up all night, before I can ask any other questions.  The hounds continue sniffing my clothes. The smaller one nudges my fingers with her nose and then licks my hand.  She seems friendly enough, but I don’t make a move to pet her, mindful of Portia’s warning. The larger hound noses around my legs, then he seizes some of the fabric of my pants, tugging me roughly toward the dark stairwell.  I try to pull my clothes free of the dog’s teeth, but he cuts off my action with low growl. The hound backs up the stairs, pulling me with him as the smaller pushes me from behind. The air grow thick and hot as the dogs force me up the stairs, and dust rises with each step we climb, swirling in the air around me.

After a few steps, it doesn't take much effort anymore on the part of the hounds.  My feet are making their way on their own, climbing stair by stair by stair, while a sense of . . . I can't really tell if it's dread or anticipation that's rising in me.

It's pleasant up here, dark and silent and a little shabby by use and lack of upkeep, somehow reminding me more of the cellars under the shop than of anything palatial.  Maybe it's the smell that's coming from the rooms upstairs, that faint, sharp aroma of incense and - it's almost there, at the tip of my tongue, word and memory, but it's so distant.

The dog, the smaller, slightly happier one, wags her tail, greeting someone that's waiting at the top of the stairs.

"Hello?"  Everything about the stairway suggests that this floor is unused.  Who’s here? Behind me, the only human footprints on the dusty stairs are my own.  Any other prints belong to the hounds.

_ Hello? _

_ Hello... _

_ Hell... _

I'm somehow expecting an echo that doesn't come from without, but it resounds in my head.  Or did I only whisper it under my breath? I'm not sure.

The place somehow feels cavernous, leading downward into something dark and winding instead of up, and when my feet step on the marble that covers the floor of this wing, one of the dogs yelps happily.

Black marble and black walls, with golden veins drawing through the stone. Marvelous and marvelously tasteless, covered in dust like the rooms of a weird rich relative nobody liked anyway until was found dead months after her disappearance, mummified within her hoard, and cousins descended to gather the spoils.  Carvings on the walls depicting scenes that might be battles or orgies or something else entirely. While the golden particles in the marble are emitting a soft glow, it's not enough to really tell.

I summon a light and cradle between my palms as I follow the sweet smoke of incense down the hallway.  The dogs run circles around me, clearly excited that I’ve followed them here. I hold the light up and turn, surveying the decorative molding that crowns the ceiling.  Peeling gold leaf showers down on me, as a sudden draft of cold air passes through the hallway. Both dogs cease cavorting and approach the same empty space in the hallway, wagging their dogs and lolling their tongues at something I can't see.

"A guest..."

This time I  _ heard  _ it, I am sure. A a man's voice, low and strangely sensual. "How long has it been since you brought me a guest?”

The smaller hound yips in a doggie expression of pride.  She prances behind me, tail still wagging and pushes me forward.  The light in my hand flickers, the extinguishes itself with an audible pop.  That’s never happened before! I try to bring it back without success. That’s also never happened.  I learned this spell before any others, and I’ve never had trouble with it!

There’s a low chuckle from further down the hallway.  As I peer into the darkness, two pinpricks of light come into focus and slowly expand into glowing red eyes.

I can feel his gaze.  The eyes of a judge or an executioner, merciless and cold. The slightest touch on my hair.  Then my cheek. Something that's too cold and sharp to be fingers. "Now let’s get a look at you.”

I shudder as I feel him inhaling the air I just breathed out, taking a part of myself, forceful and so  _ intimate _ .  I'm frozen in place, a still statue awaiting viewers.

"What a pretty little thing you brought me, my darlings.  So  _ untamed _ ."

A cool breath passes over my earlobe, then the loose locks of hair that have fallen out of my braid are pulled back out of my face and back over my shoulders, first one side and then the other.  He continues circling around me, invisible except for the red eyes just above my head. “Your ears aren’t even pierced! Not a mark on you, is there?” Something sharp and cool drags down my cheek.  “Tawdry outfit, most unfortunate, but perhaps if we got you out of it . . . Yes, there would be something there if someone took the time to clean you up.”

I shiver and grab the lapels of my jacket pulling it tighter around me.  Something about his teasing, whatever and whoever he is, is familiar, another lacuna where a memory I’ve misplaced should go.

Suddenly, I feel his hand grasp one of mine, cold and callused and  _ human _ , and he drags me down into the gold tinged darkness, floating weightlessly on coils of incense.  The insistent - the presumption that I somehow belong to his whims is disgusting, and yet, flattering in a strange way.  I feel his hunger, his desire, shameless, and almost feral, and--

_ Dema? _

Not right now.  I'm busy.

And again, Dema?  Someone calls my name, sounding slightly worried.  Slightly pissed too, maybe. Who?

"Dema? Where are you?"  

Portia.   _ That's _ her name.  I remember now.

I should not be here.

I pull my hand away, but the sharp fingers close around my upper arm, hard enough to bruise and icy, so frigid that they burn more than the air around me.  The smell of incense in the hallway turns to the stench of scorching hair and skin, air that was cool a moment below becomes uncomfortably hot. A keening wail builds in my skull, turning into vertigo as it continues.  “Let me go.”

“Dema, is it?”  There’s a sharp jerk on my arm, and I stumble.  The impact of my knees on the hard stone floor is the only thing separating this moment - the dry heat, the roar of an invisible flame, the scent of burning hair - from one of my nightmares.  A pulse of heat hits the back of my neck, followed by a loud sniff. “That . . . you smell like him. Was it you? Are you the one who broke him for me?”

The delighted laugh that follows is tinged with madness, and I just  _ flee _ , or try to, first scrambling backwards on all fours, then stumbling aimlessly over black marble that seems to stretch into eternity. The stairs, there are stairs, they can't be far, and yet--

"Dammit, Dema!  You can't be gone!  Milady will be furious!" Portia sounds desperate, and I silently add a “at least only with you, cause I won’t be around to experience it" and suddenly a sob rises in my throat, or a hopeless laugh, and I notice too late I'm falling.

I tumble down several of the stone stairs before coming to a sudden stop.  I catch my breath for a moment before opening my eyes. One of the hounds, the smaller, friendlier one, is holding the hem of jacket in her teeth and has planted herself firmly on the step above the one I’m sprawled on.  “Good girl,” I mumble, relieved that she stopped my fall before I was really injured.

“Dema!”

I curl each of my toes and fingers experimentally, reassuring myself that nothing is broken.  Then I sit up and rub my throbbing head. “I’m up here.” I slowly get to my feet and limp down the rest of the stairwell.  One knee stings, I must have hit it pretty hard.

"You shouldn't go there. You really, really shouldn't go there."  Just like that, her arms are around me, soft and strong and comforting.   _ Motherly  _ briefly comes to mind, even if I don’t have the tiniest scrap of memory to inform that adjective.  "It's dangerous up there." There's a momentary pause, as Portia searches for a reason that isn't  _ it's haunted _ .  She finally settles on an explanation.  "We don't use it anymore, and it's in a bad state of repair.  Are you hurt?"

I’m a bit surprised at how welcome Portia’s embrace feels and let her comfort in the minutes it takes for my breath to slow.  When I pull myself out of her arm, I rub at my upper arm, expecting a bruise, but there isn’t one. My knees feel a bit banged up, but not as badly as they could be; they should be fine by morning.  “Nothing bad.” The smaller dog noses at my hand. I pat her head in appreciation. “Good girl, thanks for stopping me there.”

She barks and wags her tail.  We all just want to be someone's good girl, don't we?  Whether we like that desire or not. A sudden pang of bitterness as Asra creeps up in my thoughts, and I shoo him away.

"Come on, Dema, we'll go to your room and have a drink to scare away the shadows." She tries her best to sound cheery, but underneath that she sounds like she could use a drink as well.  Both hounds are polite enough as they take bright yellow cakes from her hands and retreat to sprawl at the base of the stairwell, allowing us to continue through the hallways without further protest.

I let her wrap an arm around my shoulders as she walks me through the halls.  The distinctly human touch is a relief after - whatever it was at the top of the stairs.  It isn’t long before we stop and she pushes open the door to a guest chamber. The glass lamps hanging from the walls are already lit, revealing a room that would be opulent by anyone’s standards.  Polished wood panels line the lowest two thirds of the wall. Painted plaster above those leads up to crown molding that eases the transition from wall to ceiling. Brocade curtain drape over what I assume to be windows.  A bed is placed against one wall, covered with a pile of pillows and cushions that would have made Asra turn green with envy. For that matter, the heavy carpet on the floor is almost plush enough to sleep on. I settle on the sofa, unsure of how to respond to the finery surrounding me.

"It's a bit much at first, right?  My quarters aren't anywhere close to this, and I was still a bit overwhelmed.  Explains a lot about the upperclass folks, if you keep in mind that's the surroundings they're living in." A little grin. Dimples in her cheeks, and glasses in her hands. "Wine or something proper?"

“Oh, something proper please.”  Wine isn’t strong enough to wash away the clammy feeling that lingers on my skin and encountering whatever -  _ whoever _ \- that was.

"Very well.”  Her eyebrows arch mischievously.  “Sweet or mean?"

"Mean as you've got it.  I like to know I'm actually drinking something."

"Oho, that's the spirit.  Be back in a moment. Don't run away." 

She gives me one of  _ those  _ looks.  One that promises the severe punishment usually reserved for unruly children if I do and disappears.  Cut glass tumblers stand on a low table by the sofa, and I wonder if none of the drinks in the artfully crafted bottles on the shelf over there would be been good enough, or mean enough.

I get up from the sofa and walk around the room, running my fingertips over the sinfully smooth linens covering the bed (oh, Asra would love this!) before I return to the shelf with the bottles.  I pick one up and sniff the contents. It smells . . . soapy . . . and of lavender. Confused, I pick up another bottle. This one is scented with bergamot. I shake a bit of the contents out onto my palm.  It’s a creamy lotion, I rub it into my hands staring at the collection in wonder. Is this an entire shelf dedicated to bath products? Multiple soaps in fancy bottles? What the hell?

My journey leads me to an explanation soon.  Hidden in an alcove there's a bathtub, an actual, private bathtub in an private room, and it's made from polished copper and has little lion feet.  I knew these existed, but they are a far cry from the wooden one we have at home.

The way I run my hand over the smooth metal is almost a caress, and I suppress the need to jump into it now and here.  They seem to have running water too, with two porcelain frogs sitting on the rim, their mouths wide open, one's eyes set with ruby stones, the other's with sapphire.

"Dema?"

Portia's voice startles me.  I was too lost in thought, or maybe she's just really skilled at silently opening doors.  Maybe both.

"Thought it would be wise to bring the whole bottle, seems like one of those days," she giggles.  "Exploring your new realm?"

“I’ve found several flourishes that are a bit more than I expected.”

Portia’s smile is both warm and proud.  “The palace has always prided itself on it’s hospitality.”

The full bottle of amber liquid she’s holding confirms that statement.  It’s an import I think recognize; although, I don’t get to drink it very often.  I rub my palms together in anticipation of a smoky, smooth, and slightly sweet drink.  It’s not necessarily what I would call mean, but I’m hardly going to complain. “You brought scotch!  Portia, you’re a gem!”

She blushes. "Well, not exactly.  It's something imported from the south and a little bit... well, let's just say it's made from apples.  Those are fruit, so it's  _ healthy _ .  It's just similar enough in color that unsuspecting-"  I swear she wants to say victims, but she manages  _ guests  _ just in time, "- don't notice the difference before it's too late. Wanna give it a go?"

“You’re still a gem.  And I’ll try just about anything once, healthy or not.”  That attitude had also gotten me into a few interesting scrapes, but no matter.  She fills both the glasses with a generous pour and hands one to me.

Grinning again, she raises her own glass slight.  “ _ Za zdorovye! _ ”

“What?”

“To your health.  You did just take a bit of a tumble.”

I sniff.  Not smoky, but sweet and pleasant and seemingly  _ harmless _ , but her face tells me it's not.  She'd be exceedingly bad at poker. I get apples, and autumn somehow, fires and cold winds, and they remain as I drink.  Surprisingly gentle on the tongue, but it's quick to lighten a flame in my stomach, warmth flooding my body and setting my cheeks ablaze.

"Not too bad, eh?" Her sip was way less restrained.

I whistle, then take another, much less hesitant drink.  “Not bad at all.” I sit back down on the sofa and draw my feet up under me.  It hits me that I might not ought to put my feet on the furniture here, but the warmth of the drink is still spreading through me, to my fingers and toes, and I just don’t think I care about what I _ ought _ to do.  “Portia, you’ve really only worked here for a year?  You seem to be in charge of a lot of things.”

"Yeah well, the place seems to have waited for someone like me.  Bet you know how it is. Someone decently competent comes in and nobody wants to let you go ever again.  It's flattering, but you never get any days off without everything going to pieces. A blessing and a curse, really."

She takes my position as a cue to lie down on the carpet like a very cute and curvy starfish, joints cracking into place.  It seems to have been a long day for her as well.

“Thanks for standing up for me with the guards.”  I suppose I could have eventually talked my way into the palace, but I wasn’t at all confident of that.

She yawns and stretches her arms out above her head.  "Mila and Ludo can be a bit unpleasant sometimes, but they’re not actually awful.”

I pick up the bottle and pour myself another two fingers of the liquor.  Probably a bad idea, but no matter, the combination of last night and today merits it.  “Can I ask you another question?” She nods sleepily, and I continue. “Why did you drop that decanter?”

"I..." She hesitates.  I feel she  _ wants  _ to tell, I'm good enough at coldreading, but it's some personal matter, but she's not quite there yet.  "I was so happy to see the Countess have a guest, even if it was just a single one. To see her, well, not quite smile, but almost?  There was hope in her eyes, and I didn't think there was any left, and -" She empties her glass with a mighty gulp, trying to find find an answer to just what and how much to tell me in the liquid. "Then it's about a manhunt and an execution, and it's  _ not fair, _ and he's probably dead in a ditch somewhere anyway . . ." A hasty refill later and a face like she said too much already.  "You have more important things to do, don't you? Than to be her magical hound? It’s a fool’s mission to try to find him."

No wonder Portia had dropped the decanter!  If she's been holding all those thoughts in her head at once, it must be hard to keep a grip on anything.  Her affection for the Countess seems misplaced, at least in my ever so humble opinion. But the comment that about fairness seems like far more than disappointment in an employer.  

"It sounds like you think the Countess has better things to do?”

"I think you shouldn't hunt for somebody who deserves a medal, that's what I think, especially, not when he  _ disappeared _ years ago.  Like anyone would care for a dead man as long as they get to drink and dance!"

Her voice is trembling, and it's easy to sense an emotional connection to this ominous Julian Devorak.  Isn't she a bit young for him to be her lover? But then, the red hair, and something about their faces …  Well, red hair is memorable, it doesn’t follow that all red heads are related.

Portia pushes herself up from the floor and recorks the bottle of liquor, setting is aside on the end table with a wink that pleasantly ends the conversation before I can ask anymore uncomfortable questions.  “I’ll mention to milady that you have a taste for scotch. It just might turn up.” She pulls herself out of the floor, back popping again as she gets to her feet. “There are fresh towels in the bath.” She efficiently turns down the bed, smoothing the fine sheets.  “I think you’ll find everything, but if anything is lacking, don’t hesitate to say something.”

Looking around I have no idea what I could possibly find wanting.  Other than Asra. He’d love that pile of cushions. But fetching Asra is well beyond Portia’s power.

“Everything looks wonderful.”

“Excellent.  I’ll let you get some sleep then.”  She puts her hand on the door and then stops and turns back.  “Dema, listen, please don't think too harshly of milady. She doesn't have very many people who are on  _ her _ side if you understand what I mean.”

“I think I do.  Portia, I can't promise you anything right now.  Not until I better understand what's going on.” The number of variables involved in this puzzle continues to increase, and I'm not entirely certain of the referents for some of them.  Portia, at least, seems to be a genuinely kind person, or she's a very good actress. I start undoing the top buttons of my shirt. “Good night. Thanks for all your help today.”

She winks at me again.  “It’s what I’m here for!”

Then she’s gone.  I finish undressing, turn down the lamps, and climb into bed.  The sheets are sinfully smooth and frightfully cold. I usually don’t sleep alone.  There’s only a single bed in the apartment above the shop, and the only other beds I remember sleeping in are ones I ended up in after leaving a bar with a random stranger.  And this room! I suspect I could fit most of the upstairs of the shop into it. The empty space looms around me as I hug a pillow to my chest and close my eyes, trying to think of happy peaceful things to lull myself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to [Verdin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdin/pseuds/Verdin) for all the help with this chapter - especially with writing Portia.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Hear the Birds on the Summer Breeze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More thanks to [Verdin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdin/pseuds/Verdin). :)

“I hear the birds on the summer breeze, I drive fast.

I am alone in the night.

Been tryin' hard not to get in trouble, but I -

I've got a war in my mind.”

~Lana Del Rey, “Ride”

_  
_ **_Eight years ago.  A memory.  Now lost._ **

 

“Where are we going?”  I scrambled over a fallen log.  My foot feel through a rotten portion, and I cursed as the rough bark of nearby muscadine vine scraped my hands when I grabbed it in another failed attempt to steady myself.  I tried my best to follow Asra’s meandering path through the forest, his body lithe over the unruly ground - a sprite or a fae - his unruly white hair glowing in the dappled light.  “At this point we’ll never make it back into town before dark.”

Asra paused and turned back to me, that easy, enigmatic smile on his lips.  “Were you planning on sleeping tonight?”

“Well, I mean, maybe.”  I would _love_ to sleep tonight, but it was only midway through the afternoon, and I could already tell that the gods of sleep would once again fail to cooperate with me.  Or maybe I was the one would fail - yet again - to cooperate with them. My mind whirled and flew along a new tangent each moment. I should keep my eye out for some of shade loving herbs while we were out here.  The supplies of skullcap and betony were running low. My fault. I had drunk through most of those stocks trying to calm myself. But the herbs hadn't helped. Even if they should have.

Last night had been whittled away in a bar, and then, when they finally showed me the door to close up, reorganizing the herb stores in my aunt’s shop.  Anna, my aunt, wasn’t very happy with my reorganizing, but she had acknowledged that I had gotten a couple years worth of dust cleaned off the upper shelves.  So that was something, at least. The wakefulness hadn’t been entirely wasted. Versus, say, the prior night - day - that I had spent passed out after being awake for three days in a row.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves, falling around us, and falling to rest on the ground.  And maybe, maybe I could become the rays of light, to drown in them. If I was good enough, meek enough, they'd console me, consume me.  Or maybe I didn't want to be the light dappling the ground folding in on itself, soft and cool and warm and all the same time. Folds, depressions in the ground.  Fold in on myself until I can rest falling warm in the sunlight -

“Dema.”  Asra folded his hands around mine, and Faust stretched herself toward me, tonguing at my cheek.  “Come back to me.”

I took a deep breath, trying - and mostly failing - to pay attention to the sensation of the air passing through my mouth and sinuses, then shook my head and rock back and forth on my feet.  “Sorry. I got lost."

“It’s okay.”  He let go of one hand and touched my jaw, my face, one thumb brushing along my cheekbone.  "Where did you go this time?"

"The sunlight, then the ground.  No, not the ground. The places where it ripples like waves breaking against the light."

His eyes were solemn, but there was no judgment, no discomfort in them.  I heard the words in my head, leaving my mouth, so uncomfortably pausing on my tongue.  I don't blame people who take a step back, not when I start making so precious little sense.  But Asra doesn't draw back from the thoughts, from the words, from me. He doesn't abandon me to the swirl of odd, inconsistent thoughts that have bedeviled me for days.  He turned my hand so that our palms were touching and wove his fingers through mine.

He was going to teach me to read palms at some point, he promised, but somehow we had always been too busy.  If anyone would teach me, it had to be him. Anna didn’t dabble in fortunes; said she had no knack for it. He tugged me forward; his fingers around mine were comforting, grounding.  “Come on. You’ll like where we're going. I promise.”

I would have asked him how he knew, but then, Asra has a knack for fortunes.

~~~ 

Asra followed the path of small stream back to its source in a hollow between two steeply sloping wall of limestone, jagged from where the water had been nibbling away at them for years, creating stone formations that cut into the air.  Asra extends his arm, allowing Faust to wind herself around a low hanging branch and pushed aside some overhanging vines, revealing a cave opening out from the side of hill. I smiled. I do like caves. The air is always perfectly cool inside.  I don’t even have to duck down to enter; Asra, does - at least a bit.

Inside the air was cool and moist.  The quartz rich granite walls glimmered in the limited sunlight.  I tapped my fingertips together and took my time to weave my will into an orb of iridescent light - the dazzling reflections of sparks on the tiny crystals were delightful to watch as they danced in the air like fairies carrying fragments of memories.  Beyond the humidity, I felt a sort of thrumming in the cave itself, one that complemented - canceled - the buzzing of my own mind. For a moment I felt like the cave was waiting for me - somehow meant for me.

“I do like this, Asra.”

He laughed and summoned his own ball of light.  “We haven’t even gotten to the best part. Take my hand again.  I don’t want to lose you in here.”

I didn’t think I’d mind losing myself in here, or rather, getting lost among the flecks of light and cool, still, so very, very still air.  But I also didn’t mind curling my fingers into his warm hand.

The chambers he led me through twist and turn, high ceilings and low.  As we get deeper into the cave, patterns are marked on the walls. Some scar the stone in smooth, deliberate grooves, others are nothing more than a faint trace of magic.  In some of the taller chambers, faint rays of light cut through the darkness, falling down from vents into the cave system. The thrumming, humming, not quite singing, of the magic that I felt grew stronger as we proceed, but it soothed instead of overwhelming me.  If I could have sunk myself entirely into stone, into the humid air itself, I would have happily done so.

Eventually, the cave opened up into a massive chamber lit from overhead by a shaft of sunlight.  Enough that plants grew in and around the pool of water at the middle. Ferns and mosses crept up the rocky walls softening their jagged edges.  The water pulsed along with the vibrations of the magic - a rapid and steady heartbeat for the cave itself.

“Oh!”  I dropped Asra’s hand and knelt beside the pool, fingertips hovering over the surface.  “Can I touch it?”

“You can.  You can swim in it if you like.  Sometimes the water does strange things, but it’s safe enough as long as you don’t panic.”

I dipped my hand in.  The water was surprisingly warm around my fingers.  And soothing. I laughed, dragging my fingers along the bottom.  The sand spiraled around my fingertips and drifted softly back down, golden in the light.  Then, I stripped out of my shirt and trousers, tossing them aside before wading into the pool.  Within three steps, the water is past my waist.

“Careful - it gets deep quickly.”

“I see that.”  I dug my toes into the sandy bottom.  The gritty texture felt absolutely divine against the bottom of my feet.  Turning back, I waved to Asra. He seemed further away than I would have expected, but my sense of time and space had been getting a bit confused over the past few days.  Asra’s grinning and had already pulled off his shoes. “Come with me.” Asra shrugged off his shirt and the complicatedly pleated skirt he was wearing today, while I sank into the water, letting it take most of weight and watching the sunlight filter down.  Silent in the water, he managed to sneak beside me and surprise me with a splash. When I turn to retaliate, he’s out of range, swimming toward the middle of the pool and then disappearing below the surface with a kick of feet.

The bottom of the pond fell away almost immediately.  I ducked my head below the water. The sand sparkled in the dappled sunlight, and tiny plants competed for control of the patches of light left by the giant lily pads overhead.  In the shaded spots, something else grew - pale, glowing, and lavender. I dove beneath the surface, kicking down toward the strange plant. Reaching it took longer than I expected; depth was hard to gauge in the clear water.  But, as I got closer to the plant - its leaves are plump and curved like a succulent - I didn’t feel pressure building in my ears or the burning feeling of lungs demanding a fresh breath of air. I spun and caught sight of Asra, hovering nearby.  He gestured to his chest and mouth, and I remembered what he said about the water doing strange things. Apparently negating the need to breath was one of those things.

If one or the other of us moved, I didn’t notice it, but Asra was close enough to take my hand.  I wrapped my fingers around his and let him pull me deeper into this curious, weightless place. The sunlight wavers, competing with glowing patterns from the rock formations in the water; it was unclear whether they are drawn by a hand or part of the natural magic of the place.  Whichever, both, or something else entirely, it’s gorgeous.

The thrum of the cave’s magic remained constant, fading from the top of my awareness into a steady hum.  As I spun and tumbled in the water, savoring the sensation of neutral buoyancy, another pitch takes over, lower, stuttering and uneven.  I twisted around, trying to find the source of the drone. A crevice opened in the side of the stone walls. Unlike the rest of the pool, which was caught in an interplay of filtered sunlight and the glow of magic, the absence of light defined this crevice.  I spin toward slow in the water. The drone from it was a dissonant, but familiar, polyphony, drawing me - dragging me - toward it. I pulled away from Asra’s hand and kicked toward the crevice eager to know what created such an immersive, secondary sensation.  Something that I could maybe, just maybe I could lose myself in.

Something wrapped tightly around my waist, and I struggled for a moment before realizing that Asra had thrown his arms around me.  He pulled me back, and we’re suddenly back in the shallows, standing in water that barely reaches my waist and breathing the cool cave air.

“Are you okay?”

“What?  Yes. I was only curious.”

Asra shook his head.  “I’ve never seen that crevice before.  It’s dangerous. Or at least, could be dangerous.  I don’t think you would drown, but there are a lot of convoluted passages.  You could get lost.”

“Yeah, okay.”  I thought about the ominous drone and wonder just how deep my curiosity would have pulled me.  It was gone now. All I could hear is the cave humming that same comfortable pitch as before. “Thanks.”

He pulls me tight against him, cheek pressed to mine.  “I don’t want to lose you.”

Well above us, the light had darkened leaving the cavern lit by the soft glow of the luminescent plants and the ensorcelled marks on the wall.  Asra stood, dripping wet, and offers me a hand up. I took it. When he pulled me up, I overbalanced and fell forward, catching myself against his shoulders.  He laughed as I straighten up.

“I know a good trick.”  I gestured between us with my hands and a wave of warmth passed over us, pulling the water from our hair and turning what little clothing we had left on - skin tight and translucent with water a moment before - opaque and dry again.  

Asra turned and picked his skirt up from the pile of clothes we had left on the bank and wrapped it back around his waist.  “You’ll have to teach me that one. Where’d you learn it?”  
“Figured it myself after a few too many times walking home drenched and cold in the dark post skinny dipping.”  I pulled my trousers back on and shrug into my shirt, wrapping my arms around my chest. The cave air seemed chillier than before, even it I knew that the temperature should remain constant.

“Cold?”

“A bit.”

Asra dug in his bag and retrieved a blanket that he had somehow managed to pack in a bag half its size.  He shook it out and wrapped it around my shoulders, bending down to kiss my nose playfully. We were both still for a moment, foreheads pressed together.  I could feel his breath, inhale and exhale, passing across my face.

“Aren’t you chilly too?”

“Maybe a little.”

I sat down on the sandy bank and stretched one arm out.  Asra settled down next to me and smiled when I tuck half of the blanket around his shoulders.  He waited for a minute, arms folded across his knees, then he looked at me and slid one arm around my waist.  

“Is this okay?”

“Very much so.”

He pulled me closer to him and ran his fingers through my hair.  “I’ve wanted to bring you here for awhile. The magic here is mostly benevolent.  And peaceful.”

“I like it.”  I curled into his embrace, leaning my head against his shoulder.  “This is the quietest I’ve felt in . . .” My voice trailed off as I can’t narrow down a timeframe.

“I’m glad.”  Pulling me with him, he laid back on the sand.  He tucked one arm behind his head, leaving the other one tight around my shoulders.  I rested my head on his chest and pulled the blanket as far around us as I can manage.  Closing my eyes, I listen to his heart beat beneath my ear. His hand slid into my hair, twirling the locks around his fingers.  “I don’t want to lose you too.”

I shifted, lifting my head enough to see his face.  There’s just enough light left to make out his eyes, soft and violet.  “Lose me?”

“Sometimes I worry that you won’t actually come back.  That you’ll get lost in the tangle of your own thoughts, chasing some alluring apparition.”  His hand trailed down my back to my waist. “I don’t like that there’s nothing much I can do.”

“You don’t run away from me.  That’s what matters.”

He head turned slightly to the side, looking away from me.  “Is that enough?”

I pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.  “It’s enough.”

He was silent for a moment, then turned his face back to me, returning my kiss slowly, lips over mine, other arm unfolding from behind his head and wrapping around me.  It’s sweet and slow kiss, sufficient in itself, heading nowhere in particular. I tucked my head back under his chin, warm and quiet and content to be pressed against him, and closed my eyes  

When I opened my eyes again, the full moon had risen in the sky, casting its cool light down to the pool.  Asra’s breathing was deep and steady. One hand is gripping my arm, the other is tangled in my hair. I touched my fingers to his lips, and he smiles without waking.  He can somehow sleep anywhere. I envy him that. Settling back against him, I closed my eyes, falling asleep without a battle against myself for the first time in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Stop by and say hi on [Tumblr](https://aria-i-adagio.tumblr.com/).


	4. Take Every Stab You Can Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Verdin for beta'ing

__   


_ “All of the hurt you've been hiding away, _

_ Cuts me at once like a switchblade. _

_ And take every stab you can take. _

_ And I'll give it to ya, I'll give it to ya. _

_ I always knew that you'd cut me some day. _

_ I fell in love with a switchblade. _

_ And I know that you did the same. _

_ So I'll give it to ya, give it to ya” _

_ ~LP, ‘Switchblade’ _

 

A few hours later, the irony of the Countess coming to me for a solution to her sleeplessness is confirmed.  My mind paces through a cycle of ruminations: what did the Countess expect of me - now that I had accepted her hospitality?  Could I play any role in having a man killed? No, I’d never sleep again. Of course, I might never sleep again anyway. That question is perennial.  What had the cards been trying to caution Asra about? What about Asra had Julian been trying to caution me about? How incredibly  _ stupid _ did you have to be to consider advice from someone who had just broken into your home?  And why the hell had he looked so very familiar?

I sit up with a start as a weight drops onto my legs.  I look down and blink rapidly in surprise when I see Faust’s familiar shape coiling up in my lap.  

_ “Friend!” _

“Faust?”  I ask softly.  “Is that you?” Certainly I had fallen asleep and this was a dream.  Faust should be with Asra.

She lifts her head and bops her nose against mine before licking my chin.   _ “Here!” _

I scratch under her chin, and she tilts her head to the side, looking incredibly satisfied with this outcome.  “Well, I’m glad to see you. Where's Asra?” She twitches her tongue against my fingers then slides out of my lap and to the floor.  Of course there was no simple answer to that question. Turning about at the doorway, she bobs her head at me. 

_ “Come with.” _

Before I can throw the covers back, she’s slithered out the door.  I jump out of bed and snatch the robe from the back of the sofa, tossing it over the underclothes that I had stripped down to for sleeping in.  Faust is generally a sensible snake, but I don’t care to find out what would happen if she ran into a guard, or the Count’s hounds, or that macabre thing that had spoken to me in the abandoned wing.  

When I push open the door into the hallway, she’s waiting at the closest corner, watching and waiting for me to follow.  I walk quickly down the hallway, hoping that I don’t encounter any of the guards. Faust stays far enough ahead of me that I can’t reach her, but close enough that I don’t lose sight of her either.  She leads me out onto a veranda and then down into the garden. Finally, I catch up to her. She’s coiled in the branches a willow tree growing beside a fountain. 

“Faust.  Get down from there.”  I hold out my arms, but she’s just a bit too high for me to reach and clearly uninterested in coming down from the tree.  Stymied, I pace around the tree, trailing my fingers along the bark. At a break in the pattern of the bark, I stop. There’s a scar in the bark, at just the height for someone to have carved in it while sitting by the tree, staring at the fountain.  I crouch down and trace my fingers over the scar, peering at in the dim light. The cuts in the tree bear a magical signature. It feels . . . like Asra?

I gather a small sphere of light into my palm.  It flares to life just long enough for me to read the marks in the tree - my name.  Why is my name carved into a tree in the palace garden? And there’s something behind it, a trace of magic beyond Asra’s signature, something that counteracted my light spell for the second time this evening.  When I close my eyes for a moment, I can see Asra kneeling by the tree, knife in his hand and tears in his eyes. A waking dream? The ghost of a memory? It’s pouring rain, and he’s drenched to the bone, shivering like a lost kitten.   _ Asra! _  A familiar voice that I can’t quite place yells his name within the memory.   _ What the hell are you doing out here? _  Two large hands grab Asra’s shoulders and the images fade away.   

Perplexed, I move to the fountain and sit on the edge of the pool of water.  Faust shows no sign of coming down from the tree, and I don’t want to abandon her in the garden.  Furthermore, if I go back to my room, that memory is only going to dog me with a million more questions.  At least, the softly splashing water is soothing. I stare at the tremoring surface. My name is carved in a tree - carved into a tree with the signature of Asra’s magic.  Why would that be? The scarring on the tree is partly grown over. Four years? Three? Three seems to be the magic number as of late. Asra had never mentioned spending time at the Palace, but then what I don’t know about Asra outweighs what I do know by several orders of magnitude.  And why was he carving my name and sobbing in the rain?

I touch my finger to the surface of the water of the water and absentmindedly draw a small circle.  The expected ripples in the water slow, then something unexpected glows beneath it. I pull back from the water, and then lean closer, surprised by the effect of my touch.  An image appears, a simple swirl of colors that slowly resolves into Asra’s face. His violet eyes go wide with surprise for a moment, then he smiles and speaks.

“Dema, I was just thinking of you.”

I almost fall backwards off the edge of the fountain in surprise.  I’ve read about scrying before, but it isn’t something I’ve ever tried.  To have done it essentially by mistake is a shock. “Asra? I can hear you?  Where are you?”

“Somewhere.”  He shrugs. What little I can see of the space behind him is a riot of colors not usually seen together.  “Nowhere in particular.”

“How -?”  

“How are we speaking?”  He rubs his chin and smirks.  “Did you want to talk to me? Magic is just what you do to make the outcome you desire become reality.”

Of course, I wanted to talk to him!  Not just to him - with him. Finding that tree - finding the memory etched into its surface had triggered some deep well of anger in me.  I wanted him to explain things, explain himself for once. Just for once, and then maybe I would be satisfied.

“Asra, I have so many questions.”  

“Did Faust find you?”  

I nod.  I'm happy to have her with me, but she's not especially good at answering complex questions in a way I understand, but then, snake problems just aren’t as complicated as human ones.  I shouldn’t expect her to give me the answers that Asra continues to refuse. That’s not her nature, much less her responsibility.

“Good.  I wasn't sure about sending her, but more I thought about that card reading, the more it seemed you might need a friend.”

I adore Faust, but putting that off on her seems a bit unfair.  She's a smart snake, but still a snake. It’s a bit of a cop out on Asra’s part.  More than a cop out. At least some things are certain. Death, taxes, and Asra being evasive.

“Where are you, Dema?  I think I recognize that tree behind you.”

“Would you like to explain why my name is carved into it?”

Asra's cheeks redden, and he glances away.  “I, um, why are you at the palace?”

Ignoring his question seems like fair play.  “Asra, the carving feels like you, like your magic.  Why is it here? When were you here?”

“I, um, during the plague.  That was -” His eyes meet mine again.  They’re open for a moment. He clearly has more to say, but then they close off, hardening to amethyst as he carefully considers his words.  “- a strange time for me.”

“There was some sort of memory - I think - hidden in the tree.  You were in the rain, crying. Where was I?”

Asra’s eyes widen, and for the briefest of moments, it looks like he might panics.  Then something shifts behind him, and he looks back over his shoulder. “Oh, time to go.”

_ "Seriously?   _ What the fuck, Asra!”

“I’ll be home soon.  You can ask me anything you want then.  Take care, Dema.”

The water churns again and then he’s gone.  I flick my fingers through the surface in frustration.  Faust slithers up my leg and into my lap.  _ “Asra?” _

“Yes, for all the good that did me.”  I groan. Sometimes it feels like asking him simple questions makes everything only more complicated, and there’s a dark little ball in the pit of my stomach again, bitter and sticky, like liquorice left out in the sun.  Faust coils around my shoulders and bumps her head against my chin, and I stroke the top of her head. At least Faust is with me; I don’t feel quite as alone. 

Asra had said that magic was what you did to make what you desire happen.  I  _ had  _ wanted to speak to him.  Had he also wanted to speak to me?  And the memory concealed within the tree.  Was that also somehow a response to what I wanted?  Information about the past. Much like Asra’s non answers, the moment in time it showed was more frustrating than enlightening.  With a sigh, I stand up from the fountain. “Should we try to sleep again, Faust?”

Her tongue brushes my earlobe.   _ “Sleep.” _

Sleep is a good idea, if only sleep will cooperate.  I find my way back to my room and curl back up in bed with Faust resting on a pillow next to me.  Stroking my fingertips over her scales slowly calms me, and despite continuing to fret about Asra’s whereabouts, I’m slowly pulled into a dream.

 

_ The shop is warm with afternoon light.  I’m pouring clear alcohol over herbs packed into jars to extract their properties into tinctures.  Asra comes in through the back of the shop and sets a basket down on the counter. _

_ “What do you have there?” _

_ He pulls a tiny red strawberry from the basket and holds it out to me.  I lean forward and close my lips around the tips of his fingers, taking the berry from his hand.  It’s concentrated summer.  _

_ “Strawberries.”  The kind that grow in the forest are tiny, but so much sweeter than the large ones that can be found in the market. _

_ Asra smiles.  “I thought you’d like those.  There are also some mushrooms.  I wanted to make sure there was plenty of food in the shop before -” _

_ “-before you leave again.”  I screw the lid down tightly on the jar I’ve just filled.  “Won’t you take me with you this time? I want to be with you.” _

_ Her turns my face toward him, fingertips cool and gentle against my jaw.  Casual, affectionate, oh so confusing touch. “I wish I could, it’s just . . . it’s too risky.” _

_ “I’d take the risk.”  Here the dream turns away from the memory.  I turn my face pressing my lips against his palm.  “Why is okay for you but not for me?” _

_ “I know more about where I’m going.”  He drags his thumb along my bottom lip -  just the way I always want him to. Then reaches back in the basket looking for something.   _

_ “Asra.” _

_ He looks up, holding a tiny woodland flower delicately in his fingers.  Goldenseal. A deep rooted bitter herb, but one that has multiple uses. “What is it, Dema?” _

_ Words that I’m too vulnerable to say in the waking world spill from my mouth.  “Why do you leave me all the time? Do you want me?” _

_ He smiles and tucks the flower behind my ear.  “You’re more honest in dreams it seems?” He leans forward and kisses my forehead.  “Sleep, Dema. I really can’t wait to see you again.” _

 

Suddenly, there’s something in my face, painfully bright and golden, and I try to cover my eyes in a desperate attempt to save myself from whatever it is.  Only a few moments later my head catches up with the realisation it’s probably just sunlight, and it’s morning, and that everything is fine, even if the surroundings are too soft and smooth.  Not my bed. Right. Palace bed. Palace. I blink stupidly into the luxury. This bed is too soft and the sheets are too fine. Thinking of Faust a heartbeat later, I look around the room, but her sinuous form is nowhere to be seen.

“Morning, sleepyhead!”  Portia greets me cheerfully as she rearranges the curtains pulling sheers over the windows in place of the heavy brocade hangings.  “Milady is expecting you at breakfast.” She turns back around and picks up a fine gauzy blouse from the back of a chair. “And I come bearing gifts!  Milady thought you might like to have something more appropriate for the palace.”

“Ah, yes,  _ appropriate _ , good word.”  I rub sleep from my eyes.  The Countess’s distaste for my clothing had been clear enough the prior evening.  Reaching out, I touch the blouse. The material is silky smooth beneath my fingertips, finer than anything I can remember wearing.  It’s dyed a vivid blue green, a hue that I would never be able to afford on my own. Most of the garment is sheer; but the bodice is backed with a slightly heavier batiste and elaborately embroidered with a swirling design of flowers and songbirds.  Laces criss cross the back to pull it into a close fit. Portia hands it to me and holds up a pair of knitted leggings. 

“Come on, wash your face, and I’ll help you get dressed.”

I stumble out of bed and to the small bath off to the side of the room, mumbling that I could dress myself.  Splashing water over my face alleviates the worst of my waking grumpiness and the hot cup of coffee Portia pushes into my hands when I emerge helps significantly.

She smiles indulgently.  “I didn’t know if you were a morning person.  I am, but my older brother was never fit to be spoken to until he had some coffee in him.”

I down most of the coffee in a single gulp and nod my thanks, before pulling the leggings on underneath the robe I'm still wearing.  The wool they're made from is fine, more smooth than scratchy, but with enough texture that I can tell that I’m wearing something.

“Now, let’s see if this blouse fits you.”  Portia takes the cup away from me and sets it aside on a small bed next to the table.  I pull the blouse over my head, marveling again at the softness of the fabric. Portia fusses with the laces in the back, pulling the fabric tight round me and readjusting the pleats that fall around my waist until she’s satisfied.  “There. That color really does suit you.” Her smile is bright and please, but subtle enough for me to believe it.

“The sash has pockets built into it,” Portia explains as she hurriedly wraps the carmine fabric around my waist and deftly knots it on one side.  “Now -” She picks up a comb. “I just need to get your hair and you’ll be ready for the day.” She pushes me down on the sofa and stands behind me working the snarls out of my hair, continuing to talk as she does.

“I hope you slept well.  Those hounds were up most of the night, prowling the halls and barking at the air.  At least, no one could find anything to upset them so.”

And fortunately, the hounds hadn’t found me or Faust.  “I slept well enough.” It’s not a lie; I just hadn’t slept for very long.  Hopefully, there will be more coffee on the Countess’s breakfast table.

“That’s good to hear.”  She picks up a lock on either side of my face and works them into a simple plaits that will hold the rest of my hair out of my face while leaving it loose.  “I think milady has quite a bit planned for you today. There.” She walks back around to the front of the sofa and studies my face. “You look lovely. Last touch - I brought a few different sizes of slippers to see which would fit.”

I eye the delicately styled shoes she’s holding with skepticism; they'd fall apart the minute they encountered a real street.  “I think I’d rather keep my sandals. If that’s okay.”

Portia shrugs.  “Suit yourself.”

I slide my feet into my worn sandals and tuck a few things into the sash.  Asra’s cards, a small piece of jade that I carried for luck and to fidget with when I felt nervous.  Portia waits patiently by the door for me. She smiles broadly when I’m ready, then leads me back through the palace halls to the dining room.

~~~

The dining room is still filled with natural light despite the change in hours.  Glancing up I notice a series of clerestory windows facing to the east. Opposite of them, a series of mirrors reflects the morning light back down into the chamber itself.  Clever.

“Ah, good morning, Dema.”  The Countess is already seated at the head of the table.  A delicate teapot and a fine bone china cup are placed on the table in front of her, along with a tiered tray of pastries.  “I see you’re admiring my windows and mirrors. The design is my own - I found that the sun improves my morning disposition.”

“It’s quite inventive, my lady.”  The thoughtful detail allows the room to take advantage of both morning and evening light.  I would not have expected the Countess to have designed it herself. Of course, the idea alone could have been hers, the actual craftsmanship and labor left up to some anonymous, uncredited architect.  That would not surprise me in the least.

She rises from the table and circles around me with the elegant movements of a predatory cat.  “And how do you like the outfit I had sent for you? Quite an improvement. What you wore yesterday was most unkind you.”

I held back a protest that I liked my clothes from yesterday.  After all, these were quite lovely and actually comfortable. And, yes, it’s true that they were more palace appropriate than my street clothes.  “These are very fine. Thank you.”

She smiles, again calling to mind the image of a big cat looking pleased with itself as it toys with its prey.  “I do have an eye for fashion. Wouldn’t you agree, Portia?”

“An excellent eye, milady.”  Portia nods at the Countess and then winks at me.

The Countess returns to her seat and gestures for me to join her at the table.  She companionably fills the delicate cup at my place with tea. “Would you like sugar?  Milk?”

“ _ May _ I taste it first?”  I’m overemphasize the intonation, trying too hard to indicate irony.  There’s not enough caffeine in my system yet to do it well.

“Of course.”

I lift the cup to my lips.  It’s deeply floral, scented with rose petals.  After a single sip, I decide that either sugar of milk would destroy the fine balance of flavors.  “Neither, my lady.”

“Please, call me Nadia.  If we are to be working so closely together, there’s no need to stand on formality.  You will consent to work with me, won’t you?”

I set the cup back down.  “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Oh?”  She arches her eyebrows but lifts a sugar dusted pastry with a pair of gold tongs and set it down on the plate in front of me.  “Try that. It goes particularly well with the tea.”

I bite into the pastry.  She’s correct that it perfectly compliments the tea.  “I need to know more before I decide.”

“Very well.  Take until the end of the day to decide, but I must insist on an answer by then.”

“That’s quite fair, my lady.”   

She sits back in her chair and folds her hands in her lap.  Her calm in the face of my continued deferral of a decision is disconcerting.  She just have something up her sleeve. 

“For now, dear Dema, I will be content with another reading.  Just a single card will do. I trust that my fortune has changed.”

“That request I can accommodate.”  I wipe my fingers carefully on a napkin, clear a space on the table, cover it with another clean napkin, and retrieve Asra’s deck from the sash pocket I tucked it into.  After shuffling the deck carefully, I offer it to Nadia. She turns over the top card revealing the reversed Queen of Swords. I move my fingers over the card and breath deeply and slowly, letting it whisper to me.  The Countess is not going to like what the Queen has to say, but I don’t hesitate before speaking.

“You have created an illusion of control for yourself.  Perhaps you actually believe it to be the truth, but you have allowed those around you to control you while your own inner voice turns back on itself.”

There’s an audible gasp from Portia, but the Countess only looks intrigued.  “So that’s what she has to say to me.” She picks up the card and holds it up, studying the design carefully.  “You may have heard that I don’t care for fortune tellers. That’s not quite true. I only disdain those who say whatever they think their client wishes to hear.   Or -” She fixes her red eyes on me. “Those who say whatever they wish under the guise of interpreting the cards.” She stands and straightens her skirts. “Have you broken your fast sufficiently?”

I nod.  I don’t usually eat a lot for breakfast and the tea and pastries had been filling.  I finish the last bite of the second, a crisp and delicately flaky roll that was crunchy with almonds, fragrant with rose water, with just enough currants to offset its sweetness.  The Countess smiles and stands from her chair.

“Come.  Stroll with me.”

I follow her through the hallways.  Portia is just behind us a ring of keys jaggling in her belt.  We stop in front an ornate door. A tree branches across it in bas relief, limbs twisting into an elegant pattern.  The Countess stops and traces the design with her manicured fingertips.

“Can you read, Dema?”

“Read?  Yes, milady.”  I try to hide my irritation with her question.  I very much can read - a couple of languages well, and I can skim text fairly well in at least one other with the aid of a dictionary.

“Excellent.  Literacy is common in Prakra, but I have found that isn’t the case in Vesuvia.  I plan to found a school to remedy that sooner rather than later.”

“And who will attend your school, my lady?”  The urchins in the street who were occupied with finding a bare minimum of sustenance.  The slightly luckier youth who had found apprenticeships and worked ten hour days. A school was a lovely idea, but there would be more involved than simply founding it, if it were actually to be of any use to the populace.

The Countess ignores my question.  “Portia, the keys, please.”

Portia steps forward and begins to turn keys in a series of locks.  I wait beside the Countess giving her a skeptical look. She continues to smile at me, but the expression is somehow detached from where we’re standing, lost in her own thoughts.  “I think you’ll like this room, and that it will assist in the investigation.”

Portia pushes open the heavy door with ease.  Inside is a library. The ceiling is high and vaulted.  Shelves reach high of the walls with spiral staircases leading up to a second floor.  I gasp in pleasure. So many books! Such a pity that they were locked away.

The Countess sweeps into the room, a luxurious shade haunting these luxurious halls, and comes to a halt at a desk tucked into an alcove.  She turns to me. “During the plague, the late Count and I invited anyone who wished to use the Palace’s resources to research possible cures into the plague.  Doctors, alchemists, even some magicians worked here to try to concoct some solution. I understand that your master was one them.” She lays her hand on one of the desks.  “Dr. Devorak worked from here. I’ve been through its contents several times without finding any clues, but perhaps you’ll have more luck. Any other desk is available for your use.  Portia will have a lunch sent up to you.” 

The Countess leaves, reminding me of a cat again, but now one that has tired of tormenting its prey -  for the time being, at least. I set my thoughts of her aside and run my fingers over the top of the desk.  The alcove has a window that opens out onto a view of the gardens and the fountain - a good place to work. The surface is free of the dust one would expect after three years.  Clearly the contents have been gone through recently. 

Behind me, Portia clears her throat.  When I turn around she’s holding out a small bundle.  “Writing materials. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask any of the staff.  We’ve been instructed to provide any assistance you need.”

“Thank you, Portia.”

She smiles brightly.  “Do you have any requests for lunch?”

I pause for a moment.  Everything the palace kitchens has been wonderful.  Lunch should be a delightful surprise. But . . . “Perhaps another couple of those almond pastries with whatever else is being served.  And tea, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Portia winks one bright blue eye at me.  “No trouble at all. Good luck. I hope you can figure out what really happened.”

Once she’s left, I survey the contents of the desk.  Several books are set aside on the shelf. A portfolio is tucked neatly to one side, and rolled papers are stuffed into pigeon holes.  I sit down and take out one of the rolled pieces of paper, spreading it out on the desk and weighing down one of the edges with a inkwell that’s long gone dry.  The handwriting is practically undecipherable. I trace my finger along the letters, but all I manage to make out is the salutation of a letter. “Dear sister -”  One detail about the mysterious doctor; although, not exactly one that will help with sorting out past events. With a sigh, I curl the letter back up and return it to its cubby.

I flip open the portfolio.  It’s a series of sketches - mostly anatomical drawings, although I recognize a few botanical rendering among them.  One drawing is a simple outline of a human body with scrawled notes pointing to different parts. I hold the paper up to light.  One note reads ‘hematoma’ with arrows pointing to the knee and elbow joints. Very little here either. I flip through the other drawing.  One is a series of spirals that I can’t identify. The design is rather lovely, but the paper itself has a curious, tremoring energy to it that fascinated me.  I close my eyes, hoping for something like what had been hidden in the tree, but there’s no response. With a sign, I roll the sketch up and tuck it away in my sash before setting the portfolio aside and running my fingers along the books.  Their spines also vibrate with a combination of hope and despair. One though feels more familiar than the others. Asra?

I pull that book from the others and open it at random.   The page is falls open on is another complicated looking diagram.  Again there are marginal notes, but these are interspaced with tiny doodles, recognizable as beetles, if I peer closely and squint.   The page feels even more strongly of Asra. I lay both hands on it, palms open, hoping the energy there is hiding some ghost of a memory that I can recover.  When I close my eyes, a hazy scene unfolds behind them.

 

_ Dr. Devorak - Julian -  is hunched over the desk, muttering to himself.  He looks up and over to one corner of the room. Asra is sprawled across a pile of cushions, lazing in the sun with his eyes closed.  “Asra, maybe you could come me your opinion on this, instead of just daydreaming.” _

_ Asra opens his eyes and gets to his feet with a feline stretch.  “I’m not just daydreaming.”  _

_ Julian sighs loudly.  “I’m serious. Lucio wants results, and if he doesn’t get them . . . Asra, I’m not sure I can protect you.” _

_ Asra leaves Faust behind in the sunlight and meanders over to the desk.  He leans over Julian’s shoulder and runs his fingers over the page. “Why, Ilya, if you wanted to share your fantasies you could have just told me.” _

_ “Asra, this is a medical device, it’s intended to transfuse blood from a healthy person to -” He groans as Asra’s hand leaves the page and runs along the inside of his thigh. _

_ “Relax, Ilya.”  Asra’s teeth close around Julian’s earlobe.  There’s a sharp intake of breath from Julian, and Asra lets go.  “You work too hard.” He steps around the desk chair, pushing it back and straddling Julian’s lap.  “There’s a point of diminishing returns.” His hands slide over Julian’s shoulder and around his neck, pulling him down into an insistent kiss. _

_ Julian sinks into the kiss, eyelids dropping closed, mouth falling open.  His hands slide up Asra’s chest, then he shakes his head and pushes Asra back.  Just an inch or so. “Asra, we’ve got to find something. He’s desperate, and desperate people -” _

_ “Will do desperate things,”  Asra finishes. “Do you think I don’t know that, Ilya?”  Both his hands creep into Julian’s hair, massaging his scalp.  Julian’s head tilts down, forehead pressed to Asra’s. “Do you think we aren’t desperate too?” _

 

I open my eyes as the memory fades out.  That was . . . well, not exactly surprising.  And perhaps sheds some light on why Julian had been trying to find Asra the other night.  I pick up the book and get up from the desk, pacing around the library while I flip through the pages, hoping to stumble across something else hidden in the pages.  __ Could any of my own memories be hidden in a book?  Or somewhere within the rings of a tree? I certainly haven’t encountered anything like this around the shop; although, I had often wondered what was hiding in the attic space.

By the middle of the afternoon, I’m curled up in Asra’s pile of pillows, letting my mind drift and wishing Asra was here.  I haven’t uncovered much other than that Julian was a diligent researcher, with a penchant for drawing in the margins of books.  And that one tantalizing memory somehow preserved in the pages. Whatever had happened between Asra and the doctor, it had clearly fallen apart in a rather spectacular manner.  In the memory, Asra’s behavior was as guarded and evasive as ever, but Julian’s reference to protecting him caught my attention. From what? And why?

The library door groans as it folds back open on itself.  I sit up as Portia bustles in. “Taking a break, Dema? That’s just as well.  Milady is requesting your presence on the veranda.” As I stand up, she circles me, rearranging the fold and pleats of my clothes.  “Come on. We don’t want to make her wait.”

Portia pulls me back through the hallways at a rapid clip.  I haven’t seen her this hurried - not even this morning. The Countess’s mood must have changed significantly from the detached amusement of the morning.  She is standing on the veranda when she arrive, hands folded on the railing and looking out over the garden.

“Ah, Dema.  I hope that you had a productive day in the library.”

“I found some interesting things.”

“But you still haven’t decided whether you will assist me?”

I phrase my answer carefully.  “If I can help you uncover the truth, my lady, I will do so.”  I have no interest in helping to condemn someone who may be innocent, but something about the few clues I’ve found suggest that the truth of what occurred three years ago is as important as Artemis had suggested.  Not just for the Countess, but for me as well. 

“You still wonder just how I intend to use your talents to find the doctor.”

“I do.”

She turns back to the garden.  “I’ve spent the day thinking on that question as well.  And I’ve devised a test that may assist both of us in making a decision about whether we can work together.  I’ve heard that a magician can track a person simply by having a item of personal importance.”

“My lady -”

She cuts off my protest with an upheld hand.  “Don’t worry if you’ve never attempted such a feat.  You’re about to do so. I’ve arranged a bit of a hunt for you.  A game if you will. Prey!” She somehow projects her voice in a way that indicates her control of the gardens and everything within them.  The tyrant of her miniature world. “Come forward.” 

Beside me, Portia murmurs softly to herself.  “That explains the costumes.”

Two figures emerge from the hedges that form the garden maze.  One is dressed as a rabbit, the other as a deer. Both costumes are fanciful, intricately detailed, but clearly representative of the common prey animals.

“You may remove your masks.”

Both figures take off their masks.  As they lower their eyes, I recognize the two guards who stopped me on the bridge yesterday.  Neither looks self assured or smug now. “My lady -” the male guard, dressed as a deer, protests.  “This is embarrassing.”

“Silence.  You were intolerably rude to my guest yesterday.  This is nothing more than the result of that behavior.”

“Countess, they were only doing their job.”

Her head whips around to fix me with a stern look.  “No, they were only indulging their own egos.”

I fail to see how she isn’t indulging her own ego with the present  _ game _ , but I’m not sure that accusation would help anyone at the moment.  “They are tasked with protecting you, my lady. They didn’t know who I was.”

“They were rude to you, were they not?  Perhaps you can suggest a more fitting punishment.”

“Oh no, my lady.  This is fine.” The female guard nudges her companion.  

“Um, yes, it’s an honor really.”

“Anything to serve you.”

Both replace the masks over their faces as the Countess turns back around to face me.  “You see, Dema. They accept this as just.”

If  _ this _ is the Countess’s idea of a game, I’m not sure that I was any part in the rest of her plans.  Her talk of improving the city, founding schools, that’s outweighed now by her prior musings on indulging the crowd’s bloodlust and whatever the hell this is.  This revival of the masquerade now seems like her own indulgence in the worst parts of her ego. My fingers curl into fists. Can she be trusted to act anyway other than destructive? My own curiosity about the past might not be enough to make working with her worth it.  

The Countess continues without missing a beat.  “I’ve given one of them an item of personal importance to you.  Your Queen of Swords.”

My eyes go wide and my fingers touch the rest of the deck in my sash pocket.  How had I missed her failure to return the card this morning? And it wasn’t my card,  _ it was Asra’s! _  I had to get it back.  Get it back and then get the hell out of this tangle of secrets and egos.

“Well, my lady appears to have manipulated me into a situation where I have no choice but to play along.”

“Pouting isn’t becoming on you.”  Her expression is cool and unrelenting.  “I am confident that you’ll retrieve your card.  Your prey will run. You will pursue, allowing your magic to guide you.  If you succeed, I will know that you can assist me in finding the doctor.  If not, you may leave the palace and return to your home and your business.”  She claps her hands together sharply and turns back to the guards. “Run, you two.  Run as if your lives depend on it!”

The guards exchange a look and then take off in different directions.  The one dressed as a deer stumbles in unfamiliar boots that have been crafted to look like hooves.  

“You have until sunrise, Dema.  I wish you luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave comments about what's working (or not working) and characters from the game that you'd like to see more of. There's more than sufficient space for character development in this medium. :)


	5. The Fun's Not Fun Anymore

_ _

 

_ “And you leave me dancing alone _

_ Oh, you leave me to die on the floor _

_ You can't feel it . . . You can’t feel anymore. _

_. . . _

_ Soul boy, you're down and alone _

_ Your soul is broken again _

_ But you can't stop moving _

_ No, you won't stop moving along.” _

_ ~Franz Ferdinand, ‘Can’t Stop Feeling’ _

 

Grateful now that I insisted on keeping my own sandals this morning, I scramble down the stairs without acknowledging the Countess’s well wish.  (If it was indeed a well wish and not just another part of her act as some sort of benevolent ruler carrying out a noblesse oblige to administer justice.)  I would get that card back, one way or another, but I wasn’t sure that I would be returning to the Palace even if I succeeded. This game is absurd - cruel even!

The trajectory taken by the deer guard vibrates with a familiar energy, and I follow him into the maze, taking turn after turn without thinking too much about them.  I hear the rustling of branches ahead of me and spot occasional glimpses of the him, but I can’t quite catch up. Eventually the maze opens onto a stone wall with a small gate set in it.  Within the walls, the path branches out to either side of me. But it’s the gate - escape - that calls to me. It swings open easily, shockingly unlocked, when I push it.

With a sigh of relief, I step through the gate and out into a field of waist high grain, either rye or wheat, and for a moment, I'm ashamed that I can't identify which it is; even though, I can’t explain when, where, or why I would have learned the difference.  

There's no sign of my prey, but even if I’m no closer to retrieving the card, at least I'm free of the claustrophobic energy of the palace.  The field slopes gently from the palace and down to the south end of the city. I take a moment to catch my breath and stretch my arms and legs, then I set off down the hill, walking a quick clip but no longer running as if I myself were being pursued.

The sun is beginning to set when I reach the city.  I’m not overly familiar with the neighborhood I stumble into.  The narrow street winds through buildings with cracks in the walls and foundations, some plastered over and some left to fester.  A trio of feral cats - two tabbies and a calico - root through a pile of garbage. The calico hisses at me, then goes back to her business once it’s clear I have no interest in the prize fish bones she has unearthed from the refuse.

I pause at a corner and close my eyes, letting my senses go and hoping to feel something, anything that will lead me to the card.  I’m not even sure that the chase was supposed to include the city environs, or if the Countess had intended it to be limited to the palace grounds.  And I don’t sense a damned thing that might indicate the location of Asra’s card.

Light and voices carry from the next side street.  Lacking any other ideas, I follow then into a back alley littered with broken crates and empty barrels.  The noise comes from behind a door. Above the lintel is a sign decorated with the silhouette of a bird in flight, clutching a beer stein in one of its claws.  A tavern then. It looks welcoming enough, and I  _ would _ appreciate a drink while I try to figure out my next move.  As I’m about to grab the handle, the door is flung open, knocking me backwards and over one of the broken crates.  The fall knocks the items in my sash loose, scattering them over the cobbles.

“I’ll be back, just going out for a breath of air.  Oh -” My eyes widen as I recognize his voice, and I debate casting some sort of glamour to remain unnoticed.  But that debate runs a moment too long. A tall man emerges from the bar. He turns and sees me sprawled over the crates. “Sorry - sorry about that, let me, um, let me help you up.”  He leans down, hand extended to me, then starts back in surprise. “The shopkeep? Well, this is a surprise.” He reaches back down and grabs my hand, pulling me easily to my feet. “Don’t you think it’s a bit early to be stumbling around?  No, nevermind that, it’s never too early.”

I ignore him and frantically search around the alley for my belongings, especially the rest of Asra’s deck.  Julian crouches down to help me. Relieved that the deck didn’t fall far, I snatch it from the ground and brush the dirt off the scarf wrapped around the cards before carefully tucking them back into my sash.  When I straighten up, he’s holding the sketch from his desk and peering at me closely.

“How did you get this?”

“I -” I reach out to take it back, and he stands up easily holding the paper out of my reach.  I look down, feeling somewhat abashed. Both from pawing through his desk generally and for the memory of him and Asra that I had uncovered.  “I found it. In your old desk. At the palace.”

“Ah yes, I had heard a rumor that you were working with the Countess now.”

“Maybe.  I haven’t decided yet.”  At the moment, I’m leaning strongly toward no.  But I suppose there’s no need to announce that.

He raises his eyebrows at me then folds the sketch up, creasing it with barely suppressed violence before tucking it into his shirt.  His face shifts to a charming smile once the paper is folded away. “Well, in that case, let me buy you a drink. I never actually paid you for that reading, you know.  Not very good business practice.”

“Neither is letting people break into your shop.”

“Heh.  Yeah, sorry about that.  Come on, my treat.”

I follow him inside the tavern, cursing the bad timing.  I did want a drink after all, and maybe he’ll have some information that will help me figure out what happened three years ago, or if I even want to be involved with the Countess.  I’ll just have to make it quick. Efficient. Goddammit, why did it have to be now? He is far too interesting - both as the object of the Countess’s hunt and as the person who had so insistently crashed into my shop - to spend only a few distracted minutes with.  And what about the name Julian had caught Artemis’s attention?

The inside of the tavern is surprisingly well lit by mellow lamps, glowing warmly.  A group of old women are engaged in a card game at a one table. Around another a group of workers are gathered, talking and laughing with each other.

“You know, I never got your name.  Can’t keep calling you shopkeep.”

“It’s Dema.”  The information seems low stakes enough.  After all, I know quite a bit more about him.  Or I think I do. I’m no more sure about the details the Countess gave me than I am about what Asra has told me about my past.  But I do know his handwriting is godawful, and he has a sister; that's something to start with. I suppose.

“Dema, huh.”  He pauses and rubs at his temple, as if his head is beginning to hurt.  “Well, Dema, what’ll you have? Wait, I think, somehow I think I know. Pick a table.”

I walk to the back of the room, stopping to peer at the card game.  The women are gambling small coins, and based on the stacks in front of them, either just started the night, or reasonably well matched in skill.  There’s an empty booth in a back corner, somewhat isolated from the rest of the tables. I slide into the side where I can see the door and pluck burrs out of my blouse, while watching Julian interacting with the barkeep.  They laugh together over some joke and then Julian takes two steins from him, before glancing around the room for me. He grins when he sees me and walks over to the booth, sliding one drink in front of me before folding his long limbs up into the opposite bench.  

“There you are.  Pint of Barth’s best stout.”

I lift the drink to my mouth and take a sip.  It’s thick and strong, slightly toasty, and precisely what I would have ordered.  “This is . . . surprisingly good.”

“Aren’t you trusting!  No one ever tell you that it’s foolish trust a free drink?  Well, if I wanted to poison you, I would have just ordered the seafood.”  He takes a drink of his own beer and pulls the sketch back out of his shirt, unfolding it to study in the lamplight.  

“What is it?  I’ve never seen something like that.”

“This?”  He lays the paper down on the table and rubs at his temple again.  “It’s a cross section, a slice of a human brain.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, all these squiggles here.”  He traces one gloved finger over the ink marks.  “Folds in the grey matter. They’re unique to each individual.”

“How many brains have you seen?”  The brain is not exactly an easy piece of a person to get to, even if the subject is deceased.  I've watched Asra break into a roasted goat’s head from the market for the brains - one of the odd  _ delicacies _ he had a taste for.  It takes rather more than a single hit of a hammer to get to past the skull.  “Sliced up like this?”

He sighs and looks up at me, his one eye heavy with sadness.  No, regret might be a more accurate word. “Honestly. I wish that was a number I could keep up with.”  He pushes the drawing back across the table to me and takes another drink of his beer, longer this time.  “You can have that.”

“You don’t want it?”

“No.”  There’s something stronger than disinterest in his response.  For a heartbeat, he looks crestfallen, a sad crane ready to hide his head under his wing, and I feel an impulse to hug him.  The table between us is probably the only thing that stops me. I have another drink of the dark beer instead and let my gaze wander away from him, watching  the room. “You don’t seem very concerned that someone here will turn you into the palace guard.”

“Here?”  He leans back and drapes one arm over the back of the booth.  “Palace guard isn’t very popular here, and they don’t come around much anyway.”

“Oh.”  The palace guards frequent the neighborhood where my shop is located.  However, I wouldn’t say that they’re  _ popular _ .  They prowl the market, taking whatever food and trinkets they feel entitled to without leaving any payment behind.  

A raven flies in an upper window and spirals down through the bar, landing on the seat back by Julian.  He absently runs a finger along its head and tilts its head against his hand, croaking happily before launching itself back into the air and flying up to perch on the same window it entered from.  Odd. There are a lot of ravens hovering about the city environs, but most are more interested in the scraps of food in the refuse than in any particular human.

“Yeah, this part of town doesn’t have much use for the Countess.  Never had much use for the Count either.” He leans over the table, resting his chin on a delicately folded hand.  “So, what brings you here?”

The beginning of my answer is interrupted by the raven launching itself back down into the bar, screeching at the top of its lungs.  Julian sits up straight as the occupants of the bar spring into action. The women hurriedly put away the signs of their clandestine gambling and at least one patron makes a hasty exit to the right.  “Speaking of palace guards.” He scrambles out of his bench and picks me up from my side of the booth, half carrying me out a back door and setting me down in an alley. “You probably shouldn’t get caught with me.  Do you know your way back from here? No, of course, you don’t.” He points to the opposite end of the alley from where I can hear the guards. “Right at the end of the alley, then a sharp right when you come to the five way intersection.  That street will led right to the market by your shop. Got it?”

“What about you?”

He smirks and winks, which works no better with the eyepatch than it did the other night.  “Oh, I’ll be fine.” He shoves me gently toward the end of the alley. “You take care, my dear.  Go.”

I run up the alley, and then pause and glance backward.  Julian is climbing up a iron ladder attached to one side of the building, already well hidden by the shadows.  I turn right and continue up the street, walking at a rapid clip, but not running. I don’t want to attract attention to myself.  The five way intersection Julian mentions comes up soon enough and I make a sharp right turn, only to trip out a man slouched against the building.  A man who is dressed in an elaborate deer costume.

“Oof.  Oh! You found me.”  He looks around sheepishly, then reaches for the inner pocket of his jacket.  “Didn’t think you’d look all the way out here. Well, here’s your card.” He hands me a square of paperboard wrapped in silk.  I unwrap it hurriedly while he mumbles through an apology for his behavior at the gate yesterday. The silk falls away, revealing an entirely blank piece of pasteboard.

“What the hell?  This isn’t it.”

The guard looks as surprised as I am.  He scratches his head. “She only gave me a card.  Mila doesn't have it.” 

A carriage rattles to a stop across the street and the door opens.  Portia’s face appears, beckoning me over. She claps her hands together in excitement.  “You did it!”

I climb into the carriage, holding the blank paperboard in my hand.  The Countess is lounging on the bench seat, fanning herself in the warm, still air.  “You’ve certainly exceeded my expectations. We only just settled on this corner.” She extends her hand, offering me a small velvet pouch.  “Your Queen of Swords.”

The  _ bitch _ had my card the entire time!  I bite the inside of my lip to hold back the words I want to spit at her.  I unwrap the card and return it to the deck, sighing with relief with the nagging discordance subsides.  Portia says something to the driver and closes the carriage door. With a jerk, it begins to clatter over the cobblestones, effectively trapping me in a very small space with a very maddening woman.

The Countess leans back against the cushions on her bench.  “You look a bit worse for the wear. No matter, you can bathe once we’ve returned to the palace, and you and I will dine.”

Portia grins from ear to ear.  “Oh, and I told the pastry chef how much you liked those almond pastries, so they’ve made a batch of some cakes they think you’ll enjoy.”

I sit back on the opposite bench, arms crossed over my chest and seething.  “Why thank you, Portia!” At least I’ll eat well. If the Countess doesn’t find another way to turn my stomach.  

~~~

Back at the palace, Portia leads me through the hallways again, chatting enthusiastically about the Countess’s little test and how I had surpassed all her expectations.  I follow, letting her fill the silence. Stumbling across the Countess’s carriage had been no act of prescience on my part - it was an accident. At least,  _ I _ hadn’t been following any arcane trail.  If anything other than mundane, dumb luck had been involved it was actually the card trying to find its way back to me, or just back to the rest of the deck.  Who knows where Nadia’s carriage would have ended up if the rest of the cards had been in Asra’s possession.

“Here we are.”

I look up in surprise.  We’re on an entirely different level of the palace from the one where my guest chamber is located.  “And, um, where is here?”

“One of the palace baths.  I mean, the tub off your room is nice, but this is even better for a good long soak.” 

“Shouldn't we have stopped so I could grab something else to wear?”  The fine clothes Portia had dressed me in this morning are now splattered with mud and god only knows what else.  I'd feel bad about ruining them, were it not the logical consequence of the Countess's game.

“Oh, don't worry about that.”  Portia pulls open the door and pushes me in.  “You just relax. I'll be back soon with another outfit for you.”  

A hot bath is already drawn, filling the tiled room with sweetly scented steam.  I shuck off the nearly destroyed clothes and sink into a gloriously hot bath. If the Countess is going to insist on treating me like an exotic pet for another few hours, I might as well enjoy what I can of it.  The bath is deep to the point of absurdity. The water easily reaches my chest when I'm standing, and there is a step built into the side where I can sit submerged to my neck and half floating. Absolute decadence.  I briefly wonder about the sturdiness of the palace's walls. With that much water and marble everywhere, they must carry a heavy load. Maybe there's a metaphor in there about the hard life those in power must lead under all the glamour or the amount of effort it takes to support the crushing weight of their many indulgences, but I'm sure whatever I might come up with would be so dripping with irony that even they wouldn't fail to understand.

But, I give myself a moment to be unironic.  I’m warm and weightless. It's nice, and it calms my busy head.  I watch the tiny sparkling particles that dance in the water like motes of dust in the sun, just staring, letting the water run through my fingers.   _ Pretty! _  Faust would say, and I'd have to agree.

The wall on the other side of the bath is filled with an even more impressive collection of cut glass bottles that the one in my room.  I stand up in the bath and start to pull out corks and sniff the contents thereof. The variety of scents is stunning. Common garden herbs are mixed with exotic plants and rare resins.  I find a small, teal bottle that's blend of vetiver, sandalwood, and orange - three of my favorite scents. And then, I almost drop it, when I hear the door creak open behind me.

"Hope you didn't have to wait too long!"

Portia sounds merry and somewhat out of breath, having brought not only a heap of clothes and towels, but also a selection of small appetizers to soften my mood. They are tiny and ornate and on a silver platter, little naughty things dabbed on tiny pancakes, and I can see by a smear on cream on her lips that she stole at least one, but then, it's way too much for one person alone.  Or two, but I between the two of us, I’m confident that we can give it a good go.

"Mmm... I'm not entirely sure that there is a too long when a hot soak is concerned."  I set the bottle aside and examine my choices, finally settling on one dotted with black currant jam and heavy sour cream.  I roll it up and bite it in half, savoring the tartness.

"I heard that if you stay in there long enough, skin grows between your toes, and the merpeople call out to you. But then, it may have been in your blood all along, and you're just going home."

She places things here and there, the platter close enough to comfortably reach from the tub, and produces a bottle from between the towels.  "I  _ borrowed _ a proper drink for the appetizers, if you wanna share."

I think I probably  _ could _ get used to being spoiled like this.  Especially with such relaxed and good company as Portia.  "Sharing is among my favorite seasonings."

She opens the bottle without theatrics only a slight, almost soundless  _ pop _ , and takes the first swig.  Just to check for poison, of course, and her grin assures me this is neither the first nor the last time she's done this.

I take the offered bottle and a generous swig before passing it back to her.  The delicately fizzy mouthfeel is the perfect accompaniment for the snacks still in front of me.  I'm not sure what exactly Portia's role was in the Countess's little game, but with this she has certainly bought my forgiveness for it.  I dunk my head under the water again, enjoying the contrast between the coolness that lingers in my mouth from the champagne and the warm of the bathwater against my cheeks, before reemerging.  "I don't think I'd mine becoming a mermaid if they spend their days like this."

"Think it's more salty waves and dead sailors, really. Well, they're dead after they meet you, but a gal gotta make a living."  Her eyes light up at the potential of a nice ghastly tale.

I try one of the pancakes with caviar - the expensive kind  _ of course _ .  It's better than I expected, but then there had to be a reason to eat it, other than displaying wealth.  As for being a mermaid, I liked the salt and the sea. And I like sailors well enough. "Oh, but what if I want to keep a pretty sailor."  No matter than I hadn’t met any that I cared to keep for more than a night or two.

"I heard there are special collars they weave from their hair that keep a man alive, but it sucks their soul bit by bit, making them nothing more but a pretty doll.  Would be way too boring for me. Do you like men that way?"

"That sounds incredibly boring."  Maybe I don't want to be a mermaid, or . . . I had killed a couple nights half drunk and very happy with some pretty female sailors in the bars down toward the docks.  "What about women? Do they do the same thing?"

"A lady once told me that they find our kind of boob... bosom really funny, because they don't do the whole milk thing, being a kind of fish, especially when it gets a woman going when playing with them.  You know, in a good way. Interesting anatomy to them and all." Portia giggled and drowned a slight idea of coquettish shame in drink. Of course, I mused as I continued to nibble at the blini - the sour cream cut the saltiness of the caviar perfectly - perhaps it doesn’t seem that surprising that Portia has dedicated more time to imagining being kept by a mermaid than to being a mermaid.

"Well then."  I stretched out and then folded my hands behind my head, leaning back against the edge of the tub.  "Such curious creatures. They must get into all kinds of trouble."

"They got sharp teeth and live for long, long times. Not the worst way to get into and outta trouble, probably."  Her hands find their way quite naturally onto the tense rock that in others probably is called shoulders, and start kneading.

I sink back into her hands with the closest thing I can manage to a purr.  "Portia, you really are a gem." The day has been too long already, and I still have another dinner with the Countess to look forward to.  Wherein I must attempt to not throw the table china at Nadia in fury. But, in the meantime. "I'm going to become entirely indolent and spoiled.  A fat, happy housecat."

"Then I'd have two.  Like that's a bad thing."

She doesn’t stay gentle for too long.  What at first feels like caresses turns into kneading like I'm a particularly recalcitrant lump of bread dough, and now and then she pushes down on something hard that's sitting in my muscle, and I feel pain shooting down into my fingers. I yelp, but strangely enough, the pain is  _ pleasant _ somehow, or at least feels  _ right _ , and soon subsides back into soothing strokes.

"Careful.  I hear that if you start picking up strays if tends to turn into a hobby."  I curl and uncurl the fingers of that hand, they feel less stiff than before.  I knew they ached some of cold mornings, but I hadn't realized just how stiff they were all the time.  I hold that hand up, turning it back and forth, then yelp again when she does the same thing to my other shoulder.

"Talking from experience there?"  She sounds too focused on her work on my shoulders to be fully engaged with the conversations.

"Stray cats are a purely functional means of disposing of table scraps!  But well, so far, I've at least limited them to hanging out the backyard in morning."  The number and make up the cats waiting for breakfast varied from day to day, and most were too skittish to pet, much less bring in the house.  "And I've only named one." A magnificent queen with long silvery fur. I still couldn't believe she didn't have an actual home. She was tame enough to sit in my lap while I combed the snarls out of her coat - as long as she chose to sit with me.  She still didn’t trust me enough to let me pick her up. 

"I have one cat - and a brother, but he's basically a dog.  Idiot who can't think for himself, would probably at least try to eat his poop if I didn't stop him.  Pepi, by the way. My cat’s name is Pepi. How did you name yours?"

"Cadence - she's got a pretty musical meow, chirp, thing.  And very vocal.” I’m quite for a moment, relaxing underneath Portia’s skilled hands.  “Your brother sounds . . . difficult."

"Siblings always are.  Maybe the Countess will tell you about hers, even though it's just sisters in her family.  She has  _ opinions _ about her sisters.  Head to the side, please?"  She lets her thumb slide along a muscle there, ending up in the hollow behind my collarbone.  My curse is heartfelt, as is her laugh. "I'm almost sorry, Dema, but not quite. Getting better?"

"Mmm . . . yes."  I sink a little bit further down into the water, mind drifting from the warmth and the gradual dissipation of muscle tension I didn't even know I had.  "I don't remember siblings. Don't even know if I have any."

"Mh," she says softly, pushing deeper.  "Would you like to have some? They usually are horrible, and yet, you love them.  Don't know if I'd recommend it."

"Might be nice to at least know if I had some, instead of just, well, nothing at all . . ." I barely realize what I've said until the words leave my mouth.  But it feels safe here, in a small steamy room, with Portia. A space for sharing secrets.

"You can always make some up, you know?  They can be elsewhere or dead or on adventures.  I did that when I was little. Make up my own relatives, ones with interesting stories. Like my grand aunt.  She was a witch and had a cat, as witches do, but it was, a big as a tiger and once ate a house after it beat it in a race.”

"A horse?"  I laugh, then grimace as bit as I can all too easily picture my herd of stray and half-starved felines tearing into a horse carcass.  "But I think I might be a little old for that."

"I was four, okay?”  I get a little break from her vigorous hands as she grabs the bottle again.  “You can make them more elaborate and adult. Or use people you like as a pattern, because then they are more realistic, of course."  

"Portia?"  She finishes another drink from the champagne bottle, then hands it to me.  I gulp some down before I can overthink what I'm about to say. "Have you ever heard of someone losing their memories?  All of them?"

"Well..."  She hesitates, and her hands come to a rest on my shoulders.  "Not all of them, no. Quite a few? Yes."

"Huh."  I have another drink.  "It's not just siblings... I don't remember anything.  Not before three years ago. Not my mother, not my father, not even the great aunt I inherited the shops from."  I had tried asking the cards once. I pulled the Empress reversed for my mother and the upright Hierophant for my father.  Not very helpful.

"Do you know any people that knew you before?"

"One, she’s told me a little, and well, Asra."

"And he's not telling any tales because...?"

"Who knows why Asra does or doesn't do anything?"  That's not  _ quite _ all.  Sometimes I get headaches, if I think too much about the past, or find something that looks like it might be a hint.  The blinding, crippling, nauseating kind that reduce me to a miserable, dissociating bundle of blankets in a dark room for days.

"I mean, have you asked him?  Or is he one of  _ those _ people?"  Her arms are closer around me, somehow almost a hug, caring and comforting.

"He's -" I pause trying to think of the right word.  "He's very circumspect."

"You mean cagey, don't you?  Would bet he screwed up something he doesn't want you to know, but who am I to judge..."

"Yeah...cagey."  I do wonder what exactly Asra had done in the past that he was so caught up in hiding from me.  Certainly the risk of debilitating headaches wasn’t the only factor. They were - beyond awful - but so far, I had recovered from those.  I existed - exist - somewhere outside of him and what little he's told me. There are too many that I know how to do that he didn't teach me.  Independent knowledge, skills, a language he didn't speak. Things that had returned painfully slowly over the past three years, but they had returned.  "He's frustrating."

"Why do you stay with him then?"

"I . . . sometimes, I don't know."  I take another drink and pass the champagne bottle back to Portia.  "I think he does actually care for me. Maybe he doesn't do it very well . . . but ultimately he just feels like, I don't know, home?"  He's picked me up and put me back together too many times to not feel something for me. And as much as I wanted to shout at him to tell me something, anything, I still feel safest when he's nearby.  Confused, frustrated, and sometimes pissed off, but safe.

"And he's cute. I bet he is. You sound like he is!"

"He  _ is _ prettier than anyone has any right to be."

I find the bottle of soap I hand set aside and pour some of the liquid into my hands, rubbing it into a rich lather before working it through my hair.  "When exactly does the Countess expect me for dinner?"

Portia graciously allows me to take care of myself, not without stealing a little more of the food.  She dries her hands and shakes out the clothes she brought me. Silk and fine linen again, this time a dress instead of the casual combination from last time.

She hands me an oversized towel as I climb out of the tub, and I wrap myself up in it, before drying my hair with a smaller one.  The stack of clothes is extravagant. Silk undergarments and a fine linen overdress - cream trimmed with bright blue embroidery about the neckline and sleeves - to go over them.  I might have to be a little more mindful of eating 'properly' in this - it would be a shame to spoil a second set of clothes. Of course, that might have been the intent of sending something in a light color.  To encourage appropriate dinner table behavior. I wouldn't put it past the Countess. Somehow, it would be an almost pleasantly subtle admonition for a change.

"Yes.  Almost good to go.  Let me fix your hair, and then we're off."

"Braids again?"

"Braids it is.  I like braiding."  She beams at me, and I can't help but smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you enjoyed Portia in the chapter, you really should go check out [Verdin's fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdin/pseuds/Verdin), as she's responsible for bringing Portia to life here. ;)


	6. What You Take Won't Kill You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Depeche Mode, 'Dream On'](https://youtu.be/7dgrMSTalZ0).

By the time Portia’s deft hands have finished with my hair and face, I’m so dolled up that I feel as though I’m impersonating someone else - an actress standing in the middle of a stage, praying that the lines that she’s forgotten return to her.  The fabric and the cloud of expensive fragrance that surrounds me change my posture. My back is held straighter, my steps are smoother, more confident. Perhaps, instead of a costume, I can think of it as a kind of armor that will make it easier to suffer through the next hour.  Portia has her arm hooked in mine, and I'm not sure if it's support or to make sure I won't run away. Probably a little bit of both.

Nadia awaits us in the room with the horrible goat painting, this time set up for a more intimate dinner.  Two sets of tableware are already laid, and Portia gives a nod towards the chair closest to the Countess's before whispering conspiratorially in my ear.  "I'll keep the booze coming. Won't hurt." She slips into her servant persona again, all prim and proper.

"Dema.  It seems the Palace is becoming to you."  Red eyes flicker over me, and for the first time feel that she is  _ appreciating _ my appearance.  I'm still not entirely sure about what to do with her.  I don't care for the trick that she pulled with my cards - though it was admittedly quite clever.  And my sympathies certainly lay more with the Doctor than with the Countess. But...she has resources that I might need if I'm actually going to discover what happened three years ago.  And if nothing else, I'll get another good meal out of this. I can't cook for shit and when Asra is gone, I typically eat whatever stuff on a stick the market is serving up that day.

"My lady."  I lower my head slightly, which is all of the bow I'm going to give her.  "I can't say that I haven't enjoyed any of my stay here."

A gracious nod tells me she appreciates my gesture - minimal as it is - and suggests that no more is demanded of me.  "I am told the collection of things you brought was quite  _ remarkable _ .  If there is anything else you need, let Portia or me know.  It will be taken care of." 

"I'd appreciate a little more time in the library.  Uninterrupted." I pause, then add on. "And my sandals did take a bit of beating while running about the city today." 

"Can do!"  Portia pipes up, and I see a brief expectant smile in the Countess’s red eyes as she’s reminded of Portia’s presence.  "I know what you can do, milady. Pretend it's Dema's birthday."

_ Birthday? _

An excited finger pokes my ribs.  Birthdays seem to be a good thing in the magical world of Portia.  Nadia smiles at her handmaid’s antics. “Hmm, I can think of some other gifts for you.  And I hear the kitchen has already prepared a lovely cake. And some . . . guests . . . since you have a penchant for fraternizing with your prey, I thought it would be nice to invite them along to share our meal. What do you say?"

When is my birthday anyway?  And fraternizing with my prey?  Does the Countess know that I spoke to Julian at the bar?  Or that he broke into my shop. That would be . . . unfortunate, primarily for me.  Unless, of course, she had somehow caught him. For a moment, I’m afraid that Julian will be pushed into the dining room with manacles on his wrists, but the only people who enter are the two guards, once again in their normal uniforms.  I manage not to sign in relief.

"Let them stay.  They played your game well."

“I suppose our two fierce creatures do deserve a reward.”  She indulges me with a smile. "Take seat, please, all of you. It is time for a little something to warm your hearts and steady your nerves, even if it is just for a little while."

It seems a servant has been waiting outside already, bringing fine silver cups filled with ice and sprigs of mint and something gingery, judging by the smell.  Portia takes place to stand at her mistress's side, seeming more like a proud mother hen than a social inferior. "Sit, please, before the ice melts."

Overly aware of my dress, I tuck it around my legs and take my seat near the head of the table.  Another servant enters and lays out two place settings at the other end, as far of the Countess as possible.  That won't do. I get back up, walk down to the end of the table, collect the flatware and the plates and bring them back to the head of the table, setting them down across from mine, and giving the Countess a pointed look.  Let them stay does not mean to exile them to the far end of the table.

The Countess stares down her nose her me, and then a slow smile overtakes her face.  "While I understand your point, my esteemed Dema, I very much doubt you are doing them a favor."  I  _ want _ to read her smile as icy, but isn't, not really.  She seems more... amused? Indulgent is perhaps the right word.  Someone allowing the antics of a favored pet to play out before tightening the leash again.

Portia seems to be suppressing a giggle as she quickly rearranges the flatware back into the proper order as I walk back to one own place and take my seat.  The Countess's comment about not doing them a favor may have been right. Both guards look entirely terrified as they take their places across from me. Ah well.  Of course, in using them to make a point of the Countess, perhaps I wasn't behaving much better than she herself had.

"Have you recovered from your trials?"  Nadia asks friendly little questions, polite and amicable, but somehow so very... no,  _ distant _ is not quite the right word.   _ Far away _ , maybe, or  _ lonely _ , the same kind of lonely a traveling merchant has when staring into a tavern fire during a long night.  She’s simply far better in masking it with friendly chit chat. Undoubtedly, Portia briefed her in about those two, and she manages to keep a conversation flowing, even if it's mainly  _ her _ asking the questions.

Unfortunately, her polite questions turn to me.  “Tell me more about yourself, Dema. Where are you from?”

“Umm.”  I grab my wine glass and hastily drink from it, in a bid to stall for time.  “It’s far from here. Small town. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”

"You might be surprised.  I have heard of an astounding amount of small places.  It is important to know such..." For a second, her voice breaks, and she looks like she's bitten on something vile, food or memory.  A hasty sip of wine. "But I cannot blame anyone for getting drawn in by the big city. Of course not. Adventure and money, whatever you prefer."

"A little of both, I suppose."  A servant whisks away the ice, replacing with some sort of fish involving chopped and highly spiced raw fish.  I push a bit of fish around my plate, trying to figure out a way to turn the conversation to a different topic.  “I moved here to work with my aunt. She, uh, owned the shop before me.”

"So you have lived here for a while?"  One of the guards asks, glad to be out of the spotlight.  "You like it? We rarely get into town itself. Feels like it changed a lot."  

“Oh, you know how is it,” I dissemble and wish that I had a god to pray to that no one else would ask questions about my life or past.  “Things change slowly, and you hardly notice it at all.”

Nadia inserts herself back into the conversation.  “Was your aunt a card reader as well?”

“She -”  I don’t know much about my aunt either.  Asra’s told me that the shop was once hers, and I’ve inferred some things from the contents of thereof, but I don’t know any real details.  “She mostly worked with herbs.” I stuff my mouth with another bite of the fish, hoping for a reprieve from her questions.

“Ah, botanical magic, how pleasant.”

“Um, yes.  This fish is quite nice.”  Please let that distract her.  Or maybe she’ll just ask me about herbs and flowers.  I can answer  _ those _ questions.

“The kitchen here does admirably well, but I’m afraid they haven’t quite managed to replicate the flavors I remember from my childhood.  Nonetheless, it is a wonderful dish for a summer night.”

A servant whisks my empty plate.  Nadia pushes back her chair and stands.  At the other end of the table, Bludmila and Ludovico drop their utensils in unison.  “Portia, please have the sorbet and desserts Dema and I sent to the veranda. I think I would like to enjoy the night air a bit.  And -” She tilts her head down to look at me. “I would like to speak a bit more privately.” 

I follow her out onto the veranda.  Lamps sway along the railing, providing sufficient light, but no so much as to overwhelm the sense of nighttime solitude.  Nadia settles herself into a wicker chair at a small table. As a servant places two dishes of icy sorbet topped with mint sprig, I take the seat across from hers.  She picks up the petite spoon from the dish and gently scraps a bite from the sorbet. I decide to be polite this time and mirror her actions. The sorbet is cherry - tart and only slightly sweet.  It complements rather than clashing with the lingering taste of the spiced swordfish.

“I fear that I may not have made the best of impressions on you, Dema.”

The mouthful of sorbet melting on my tongue conveniently keeps me from quipping about her understatement.  She continues without waiting for a response.

“I’m not unaware of the current state of disorder in the city.  My motivations with this investigation are simply to begin to restore the city’s order and perhaps its faith in my competence as a leader.  To do that, I must establish what happened three years ago and see Count Lucio’s murderer brought to justice.”

“How is it that you don’t know what happened?”

She sets her spoon down and looks over the railing.  Her lips are pressed together into a thin line as she gazes at the darkness over the garden.  As I wait for her response, a massive snowy owl lands on the railing beside her. She smiles and reaches out, stroking the owl’s head and speaking to it.  “Ah, Chandra, it’s good to have you here, old friend.” The owl hoots gently at her. She turns back to me and takes a deep breath - the first sign nervousness I’ve seen from her since those first few moments in my shop.  “What I am about to tell you must remain entirely between the two of us.”

“My lady?”

“Please.  Nadia. Too few people call me by my name these days.”  She presses a hand to her temple, ever so briefly gnaws at her thumb, and then lets her hand fall back into her lap.  “I have - almost no recollections of my time in this city.”

“Your memories are missing?”  That single sentence changes my entire impression of the Countess, but I’m not yet willing to give into the sudden surge of empathy that fills me.

“Sometimes I recall hints of the past.  Whispers. But anytime that happens, I also experience excruciating headaches . . . blinding really.  I remember agreeing to marry Lucio. Coming to Vesuvia during the masquerade nine years ago, but everything in between, my memories are like being lost in a fog on some lonely island.”

“That -” I allow my own spoon to clatter against the sorbet dish.  What I’m about to say is as much of a understatement as the Countess’s comment on having failed to impress me.  “Would be disconcerting.” 

“Yes.”  The Countess turns back to the owl and runs her fingers over its glossy feathers.  “Portia is the only other person aware of my . . . predicament. But I think you will now understand why I must know what happened, and who I can trust.  My courtiers tell me that Dr. Devorak is guilty. If he is, so be it, he will hang when I apprehend him. Which is at least an improvement on the gladiatorial trial by combat  _ some  _ of my courtiers would like to see return.  But I am not entirely convinced that they are telling me the whole story, or even a true story.  I will be just as content if you find he is innocent, so long as we establish the truth.”

“Why me?”

“I came to your shop because I continually saw your sign - the snake wrapped around an apothecary’s mortar and pestle - in my dreams.  I don’t know what I expected.” She pauses and fixes me with another appraising look. I doubt that I am anything like what she expected.  “But I think that I can trust you. You have little interest in telling me what I want to hear.” She rubs both of her temples. The muscles in her face have gone taut, probably another headache coming on.  “Perhaps you will think a little more kindly of me now?”

“If your goal is to establish the truth, I can agree to help you with that.”

“That is all I require of you.”  The Countess stands, and Portia materializes from the shadows.  “I believe I will retire for the evening. Portia, would you see Dema back to her guest room and provide her with anything she needs?”

Portia links her arm in mine as we stroll along the veranda, taking an alternate route back to the guest room.  “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

“I suppose not.”  I had made it through dinner without staining the white dress, and the conversation with the Countess had been illuminating.  Her intentions might not be as horrible as they seemed at first. Perhaps she was more misguided than anything. It was a vulnerable state, to be reliant on someone else to fill in information from a large chunk of time.  More vulnerable than I really liked to admit. “So, the Countess has lost all of her memories of Vesuvia?”

“Yeah . . . I wasn’t exactly sure when I should tell you that, sorry.”  Portia let go of my arm to push open a door leading back inside. “I wanted to earlier.  But, I’m glad that she told you.”

“So it really has been the courtiers running Vesuvia?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Oh?”  I elbow her side gently, finally haven’t become accustomed to her familiarity.  “Sounds like you have opinions?”

“As always.”  She looks around the hallways, reassuring herself that they’re clear before continuing.  “They’re - well, you’ll meet them soon enough. But Valerius is the only one who seems concerned at all about the city, and he has a  _ certain _ expectation about how things should go.  Then there’s Valdemar . . .” She shivers.  “I don’t know if I even want to know what they’re up to.  Certainly wouldn’t help me sleep if I found out.” She takes my arm again.  “But, you’ve had quite a long day, let’s get you back to bed.”

 

_ “Blame it on your karmic curse.  _

_ Oh, shame upon the universe. _

_ It knows its lines.  _

_ It's well rehearsed. _

 

_ It sucked you in, it dragged you down  _

_ To where there is no hallowed ground  _

_ Where holiness is never found.” _

_ ~Depeche Mode, “Dream On” _

 

When I got back to my room, I undressed and curled up in bed hugging a pillow and hoping for a bit of sleep.  I wasn’t surprised when it didn’t. I rolled back out of bed and paced the room trying to burn off the nagging wrongness - something missing - I felt deep in my bones.  Faust’s presence would be welcome, but tonight she’s nowhere to be seen. With a sigh I settled myself on a the sofa with a glass of water from the carafe that had thoughtfully been left in the room and took Asra’s deck from my bag of belonging.  Leaning back against the plush cushions I let my mind turn for a moment. I have questions about Nadia and Julian both. Nadia’s motivations are a bit clearer now, but I can’t quite bring myself to trust her. And Julian - why did I almost immediately feel connected with him?  It couldn’t just be his past with Asra, whatever that had or hadn’t been? 

I settle on Julian as a topic of intrigue and shuffle the deck several times before cutting it and laying out the top three cards.  I pause before turning them over in quick succession. The Moon, the Hanged Man reversed, and the Ace of Cups. I let my fingers hover of the spread, but the cards were quiet.  Or perhaps, they were simply drowned out by my own mind howling at the moon. The Hanged Man still seems appropriate to Julian - one so buffeted by the waves of fate that he’s simply given up and hopes to be washed up on some shore.  The Ace of Cups should feel more promising than it does, but the idea of an overflowing cup is only reassuring if you’re not the one being asked to empty yourself. I close my eyes. There’s only one person who might actually answer my questions about Julian.  Besides, if I wandered off to bar even if I didn’t find him, I could simply fall back on my usual strategy for coping with insomnia and existential dread: wine, music, sex - anything to deaden the roar of my mind. 

 

Given the way the palace gardens and the field wrapped around this city, the bar with raven signboard is actually closer than my usual haunt near the shop.  And, certainly, more interesting. As I had suspected, business had picked right back up once the guards had left. In fact, a fiddler had been added to the mix, along with a somewhat drunken accordion player.  I order a couple of drinks from the bar - neither Portia’s purloined champagne or the wine over dinner had been enough - then surveyed the room, quickly spotting the person I hoped to find again when I left the Palace.

“Mind if I sit here?”

A very surprised Julian looks up at me as I set my drinks down next to his.  “Not at all. I wasn't expecting to see you again tonight.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” I sit down across the table from him and throw back the double shot of harsh liquor I held in my head, chasing it with the significantly better beer.  Julian raises his eyebrows and looks vaguely impressed. But then wine from dinner had merely been a drop in the bucket of my ever expanding alcoholism. After all, why should I bother to keep the present clear when the past was so blurry.

He glances over my clothes, then smirks.  “Whatever are you wearing, my dear?”

“Oh.”  I hadn't really thought about coordinating when I shrugged into some combination of clothes that covered the important bits.  I was in my old canvas trousers (someone in the palace laundry had expertly mended the ripped hem) and a loose sleeveless top of my own.  A black silk robe that had been tossed across the back of the sofa was over that, just skimming the tops of my thighs. I suppose it was intended to be a bathrobe, or a dressing gown.  It was doing well enough as an overshirt, if well enough was limited to providing one more layer against the evening chill. I return his smirk. “What? You don’t think this fits with my general bohemian aesthetic.”  

Julian laughs, and I feel a warmth beginning in my belly, once that has nothing to do with the alcohol or even lust.  I've heard this laugh before - I know, I  _ just _ know - and I want to keep hear it again and again.  “Don't worry about it. I'm sure you’d look fetching in a flour sack.  You certainly do in whatever this is.”

“You’re the one wearing gloves indoors and a shirt missing most of its buttons.”

“Fair enough.”  He shrugs, eyes glassy with drink.  “You do realize that Nadia'll hang you with me if she finds out you've known where I am and haven't told her.”  He reaches across the table and strokes the side of my head that collided with the door frame the other night. The familiarity is both unexpected and yet, it somehow feels  _ right. _  “Your head hasn't been bothering you has it?”

My head always bothers me, but not from the knock the other day.  Whatever he did to heal the concussion lasted. “See, I’m having trouble reconciling that concern with a cold blooded murderer.”

“Even murderers are entitled to some moral complexity, my dear.”  He drinks his beer, gaze shifting from side to side and then down at his gloved hands.  He rubs his right hand across the back of the left, lips pursed in an utterly abject expression.  “If I even am a murderer.”

I lower the beer that I had almost raised to my lips back down on the table.  “If? You don’t know.”

“I, well -”  He leans forward over the table, dropping his head into his hands.  “I don’t remember much of what happened the night Lucio died. Everything from then - not just that night, all of the plague, really - is foggy, confused.”

More missing memories?  His, the Countess’s - mine.  If amnesia is the running theme, was I involved in the murder somehow?  And what else had been involved to disorder so many people’s minds? There wasn’t much in the books I had access to about losing memories, but what little I had found was consistent in noting that it was extremely uncommon outside of old age or significant trauma.  Julian and Nadia both have a clear connection to the Count and his murder, but I don’t - at least, not as far as I know. But there is an awful lot that I don’t know. 

But, more to the immediate point.  “Why are you in Vesuvia then? Do you want to die for a murder you may not have commited?”

“Does it matter?  Look, sailing with pirates for three years gives a man a lot of time to think and all I know is that I’m guilty of  _ something _ .  I have to be, to feel the way I do.” He lifts his head for a moment before dropping it back against the table, arms crossed in front of him.  “Besides, if it's my fate to hang, then there's no, um, no point in continuing to run from it. Maybe I’ll at least get some kind of answer out of dying.”

There's something about seeing him so despondent that makes me want to wrap both my arms around him - and tightly.  I start to reach my hand across the table, then jerk it back. I've had plenty of bleak interludes, but what I feel right now is some emotion that goes unexpectedly beyond casual empathy.  Some bizarre sense that he is important to me. A piece of heirloom jewelry that was lost and is now found, or a rare book once read in a library and now available for redemption on a vendor’s table.  I’m not quite sure how to explain away the sentiment or just what to do with it. But not acting isn't an option. I slowly extend my hand until my fingers are resting on his shoulder. “It wasn’t you.”

He raises his head, just enough to meet my eyes.  “You can’t tell me that I’m innocent. You don’t know that.”

“No.”  I lift my fingers from his shoulder and stroke the lock of hair that’s falling over his face.  “But I know you’re not a bad man.”

“How?”

“I -”  This isn’t like the cards whispering to me.  This is something more real, something from inside of me.  The words are distant, as if they’ve been shouted through a fog and had to echo over open water before reaching me, but but unlike the cards, the words are my own, and I _ know _ they are true.  My fingers brush against his cheekbone.  “I just do.”

“You really are a little fool.”  His head tilts, leaning into my fingers.  I stroke his hair and his cheekbone, waiting for him to say something else.  The fiddler pulls a long morose note from the strings that wavers in the air.  He sits up and tosses a coin across the room to the musicians, calling for something happier, faster.  The accordionist catches it adroitly and the pair begin a quick paced tune. 

Julian takes another drink of his beer and smiles at me - it only looks half forced - before standing and bowing dramatically, one hand extended to me.  I return his smile and toss back the remains of my beer. This may not be an answer but it is part what I was hoping for when I came - to find someone to dance with into the energy running through my body gave out.  Anyone would do, honestly, but at the moment, Julian intrigues me. I stand up and take his hand. Eyebrow arched in what might be surprise, he takes my hand, his grin becoming more genuine as he does. 

He is, as I suspected, a fine dancer.  And dancing him with isn’t as awkward as I would have expected, given that he’s head, shoulders, and bit of ribcage taller than I am.  I feel as if he knows the steps I’m going to take before I do. We whirl through two songs before returning breathless to our table and signaling to the barkeep for more beers, which Julian helpfully goes to fetch.

He slides close to me on the bench, wrapping an arm companionably around my shoulders. “Why the trouble sleeping, lovely?”  

I shrug.  Honestly, I don't know.  Sometimes, I just got too agitated to sleep for days on end for absolutely no apparent reason at all.  And then the sleeplessness only snowballs on itself as the agitation takes over, tearing into my consciousness like a vulture working on a fresh carcass, until finally, my mind is so far from my body that the latter can simply crash down into bed.  But Julian looks like he knows a few things about not sleeping. Reaching out, I run my finger along the dark circle under his uncovered eye. “And how well do you sleep?”

“I'll sleep when I'm dead.”  He leans over me. “You smell good.”  He traces the line of my now exposed collarbone.  I lean into his touch, running my tongue across my bottom lip.  But then he shakes his head, straightens up there robe tied over my shirt, and pushes my hair back from my face.  I narrow my eyes at him, pouting and disappointed. Julian is the perfectly awful decision I’ll looking for. And he's clearly enough interested in me.  He runs a hand along my jaw and brushes his thumb over my bottom lip. “I’d love to, darling, really, but I don’t know you well enough to know if this is your normal, or if you simply have amazing balance while inebriated.”

“I’m never normal, per se.”

“Note that I said ‘your normal’ not just 'normal.’”

“I'm not at all sure that I even have a personalized normal.”

“Life that complicated, my dear?”

“Not really.”  My life itself is fairly banal, except for that whole not remembering more than three years thing.  I feel like a ghost. A specter - a spectator - at the limits of life and death. A shade captured in patterns of behavior that were set for me long ago.  Watching. Reacting. But every time I feel able to act on my own, something seizes me, either pulling into melancholy or dragging me up, up, up into a frenzy.  And, once again, I'm stuck in the pattern, whatever exit I glimpsed long past, and I'm once again caught barely managing to balance between life and death. Maybe that's why I had accepted the Countess's proposal; I wanted the exterior to match a little more constant parade of up and down in my interior life, or at least, provide me with a sorry if distraction from them.  “But my mind makes up for it in sheer unpredictability.”

“You better get back to the palace; it’s nearly dawn.  Come on, I’ll walk you.” 

“That sounds like a horrible idea.”  I lean forward, resting my forehead against his shoulder one hand on his chest, the other resting on his waist.  I’m not  _ inebriated _ , but I  _ might _ be a little drunk.  “I don’t want you to get caught.”

“Heh.”  Under my fingers, his chest catches in a half laugh.  “Compromise. Your shop?”

“I can work with that, I think.”  I mean, he was walking openly in the market the other morning.  The people who live and work around my shop must not be in a hurry to turn him in either.

The air outside has gotten steadily cooler over the course of the cloudless night.  I wrap the bathrobe tighter around me and retie the knot in the sash. Julian stops and looks back at me with a concerned expression.

“Are you warm enough in that?”

“This?  I’m fine.  Silk is a surprisingly good insulator.”

“I did not know that.”  He takes my arm when I stumble over a bucket that has been tossed in the street.  “Still, you, um, you look like you might be chilly.” He pulls me close to him, and wraps one side of his coat around me.  It’s comfortable - the same way snuggling against Asra is comfortable. We walk in silence arm and arm, through several turns of the street.    

“Say, why did my old mask upset you so much?”

“I -” I shudder at the thought of those glassy red eyes.  “I don’t know, to be honest.” I pull my arm free of his hand.  “I’m sure a lot of people don’t like them. Bad memories. And you had broken into my home as well.”

“Yeah, I really am sorry about that.  I mean, I thought I was just breaking into As - the witch’s home.”

“Why are you trying to find him?”  And for that matter, why doesn’t he want to say his name?  At some point, Asra had been someone Julian wanted to protect, rather than “the witch.”

“I need answers.  I think he has them, if I can get him to tell me something for once.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Heh,” Julian chuckles.  “How long have you . . . ?”

“Been his apprentice?  Three years.” At least, that’s as far as I can remember being his apprentice.  I’m not quite sure that I’m ready to trust Julian with the full extent to which I’m missing my own past.  I want to. I’m so tired of keeping that card clutched close to my chest, telling little lies to disguise it and praying that I can keep up with them, all the while feeling like I’m drifting further and further from who I actually am.

“Fascinating timing.”

“What?”

“Oh nothing.  Look, we’re at your shop.”

Speaking of people not answering questions.  Almost as bad as Asra. I undo the wards on the door and turn back to say goodbye to Julian.  He leans down, embraces me, then kisses my cheeks: one, then the other, then the first one again.  “Sleep, my dear.” 

“You too, maybe?”

“Maybe.”  He smiles at me - a genuine smile with no hint of a smirk.  Then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New prologue, you say? What's that?
> 
> Thanks again to Verdin for beta'ing.
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr [@Aria-i-Adagio](aria-i-adagio.tumblr.com).


	7. Rosemary. Heaven Restores You in Life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Interpol, "Evil"](https://open.spotify.com/track/6B182GP3TvEfmgUoIMVUSJ?si=58kNgwtESwCvNQI-vw59Og).

Sunlight pouring in the bedroom window wakes me after a hour or two of sleep, and I roll lot of bed, still feeling nearly as much energy as the day and night before.  The lack of tiredness - that isn't a good sign. Especially not if I need to keep my head clear. I don't have time for mind to run in multiple circles at once. Not now.  Not when I actually have something at stake.

I make a large pot of tea and finish off most of it, letting it steady my thoughts.  I’m not at all sure that I’m interested in helping the Countess, even after what she had confided in me the prior night, but I’d like to retrieve my ‘remarkable’ collection of things and get one more look at that library before making a final decision.  And, I can't get Julian's laugh out of my head, nor the insistent belief that he could not have killed someone. If I can find the actual murderer, the Countess can't possibly execute him. Right? Not even if the crowd calls for his neck in the noose.

I wish I were more confident of her.  More confident that she wouldn’t give in to the whispers of another in her ear or her own desire to promote an image of control.

* * *

 

Feeling lazy, I ask around the market until I find a merchant headed for the palace who’ll let me hitch a ride on a her cart of cabbages.  When we arrive in the back courtyard of the palace, Portia is overseeing a group of servants loading up a wagon.

Portia catches sight of me across the courtyard and claps her hands together in excitement, beckoning me over and pulling me up into the wagon bed with her.  “Oh, there you are! We're going into town to announce the Masquerade. Milady wants you to come with us. You can check on your shop.” She looks me over from head to toe.  “And maybe you can grab a few extra outfits. Late night for you, was it?”

I switched the bathrobe for a proper jacket before I left this morning, but apparently I still didn't pass muster.  Or maybe it was the raccoon eyes and messy hair. Portia gives me a sympathetic look and passes over a warm metal canteen.  “Coffee. Careful, it's hot. Climb on up in the wagon. Want to tell me where you were?”

I take several sips of the thick dark coffee before answering.  “Couldn't sleep, so I went out for a walk. Ended up back at my shop.  Not much to it.”

She looks around the wagon, counting heads and then gestures for the driver to start.  The wagon jolts forward, and she arches both eyebrows at me knowingly. “Just a walk?”

“Mostly.”  I grin foolishly and drink some more coffee.  

Portia winks and laughs.  “Well, I suppose it turned out today, but keep in mind that Milady is generally an early riser.”

“I’ll mention that to my insomnia demons.”  

Portia snorts in amusement and then turns to one of her colleagues to discuss some aspect of the announcement.  I finish the coffee, then lean back against a bag of rice in the wagon bed to close my eyes. The morning sun is pleasantly warm, and the rice makes for a passable pillow.  Too soon, the wagon halts in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the morning market, and Portia starts shouting orders for folks to go about their business but return at noon for the announcement.  It isn’t difficult to imagine her as captain of a ship, ordering about sailors however she pleased. Or as the sergeant of a mercenary troop, quelling any protests from the mangly lot of vagrants with her voice alone.

On my way back to the shop, I stop by the baker’s stall and pick up a loaf of pumpkin bread.  As the warm scent of spices wafts over my face, I wonder why I hadn’t done that earlier. It’ll go well with some more tea, and then I probably should attempt to find something a little more palace appropriate in my limited wardrobe.  Or maybe I could borrow something flashier from Asra's. He wouldn’t mind, assuming that he ever noticed that I was wearing his clothes instead of mine between wandering off to here, there, and everywhere.

Chewing on a torn off piece of bread, I undo the wards on the door and shove it open with my hip, only to find a surprised looking Julian on the other side.

“What are you doing here?”  I reach up to put my free hand on his chest and push him back inside, narrowing my eyes at him.  “I know I locked everything this morning, so either you broke in again, or -”

He holds up a bit of copper, sheepish grin on his face.  “-or I have a key?” I snatch it from him, put my bread down on the counter.  Julian rubs his hands together. Is he actually nervous? “I was hoping Asra was back.”

“Of course, you were.”  That’s how Asra works - like a drug, an addiction - barely gone at all and you want him back.  I dig my own keys from my pockets, comparing the key he had to the others on my ring. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him tearing a generous portion from my pumpkin bread.  “Hey, did I tell you could eat that?” He drops his hand away from my bread and begins to stammer an apology. I flick my fingers at him and smile. “It’s fine, have a piece. You look like you need it.  Who gave you a key to the back room?”

“You, oh, I see.  You really, you really don’t know . . . I, umm -”  He looks down at his feet and blushes before recovering with one of the smirks that were clearly his coping mechanism for uncomfortable topics.  “Let’s just say I needed to make some house calls. After hours.”

“What is it that you think I don’t know?”  My own smirk is at least as broad as his when the color rises in his cheeks.  He steps to my side trying to get around and to the door. I match his movement - just if it was last night and we were still dancing - and lean against the door to block him as best I can given our difference in height and size.  I already know that he’s quite capable of picking me up and moving me if he really wants to leave. “What else do you have up your sleeve?”

His eyes dart away for a moment, then he regains his composure and looks back at me, hands raised above his head.  “Oh, I hope you don’t think I’m a thief. I’m a lot of things, but not that.”

“I remember you telling me - possibly more than once - that I’m a fool to trust you.”

“Well then.”  He shrugs out of his overcoat with a dramatic sigh and begins unbuttoning the jacket underneath.  “Search me. If you find anything of yours, I’ll show myself to the stocks.” His shirt is same one he was wearing last night missing most, if not all, of its buttons.  I fold my arms across my chest and suck a breath through my teeth. Oh, this is good! Possibly better than the tea he’s keeping me from. Definitely makes up for last night's gentle (and, to be fair, probably wise) refusal.  He spreads his arms and tilts his head down, one eye still peering at me through his curly hair. “Search til you’re satisfied.”

“I think I will.”

His head jerks back up when I call the bluff.  The stunned expression on his face changes gradually into a leer.  He doesn’t seem to mind much, even if he didn't expect me to take him up on the offer.  Or he wanted me to? “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you? Don’t be shy. I promise I’ll be good.”

No one has ever accused me of being shy - at least, not since I figured out how to talk again.  I step close to him and lift my hands to his shoulders then run them down and around each well muscled arms.  Coming back to his neck, I slide my fingers just under his shirt. He draws in his breath sharply, and I pause, watching his face to see if he objects, before I continue, tracing my fingers up and over his well defined chest to his collarbone then along his neck and up to the base of his skull.  I have to lift myself on my toes to press my fingers into his thick hair. The motion pushes me against him, and I can feel his pulse jump in the artery running down his neck.

“Sorry.”  Feeling wicked and a bit pleased from that response, I drop back onto flat feet and smile.  “You’d be shocked what people manage to hide there.” I lower my fingertips to his collarbone, then just beneath, and stop again, meeting his gaze and giving him another chance to protest.  A blush begins to spread across his face, and his breath quickens, but he doesn’t break eye contact. I continue, spreading my hands wide across his chest - ah, he is wonderfully muscular - curving my palms around the sides of his torso.  He jumps when I reach his waist.

“Ah, no, not there, I’m terribly ticklish.”  I look up, stifling a laugh and pulling my hands away.  “That, um, can be our little secret.”

“Hold still.  You said you’d be good.”  I step back. He’s biting his lip and the flush in his face is pronounced.  This _is_ interesting.  

“Done so soon?  Why you’ve only just started - Oh!”  He nearly jumps again when I crouch down in front of him, running my hands along the outside of his legs, stopping at the top of his absurdly high boots, not quite yet wanton enough to drag my hands all the way around to the inside of his thighs.  I straighten back up and step around. He twists following me with his eyes. “I had no idea that you were so . . . hands on.”

“Did I say you could move?  I don’t think I did.”

“No.  No you didn’t.”

The tips of his ears turn red as he faces forward again.  A shiver passes through him as a run my palms over his back, down to his hips.  He gasps sharply as I push my hands around his waist to check his pockets, stopping when I find a hard edge in one.

“Oh, um, don’t, don’t mind that, just a knife.”

Clicking my tongue against my teeth in mock disappointment, I fish it out of his pocket and toss it on the counter.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you.  I can show you if you like.”

I take that as a cue to continue our game.  “Are you now?” Indulging myself, I run my hands down his legs again, this time trailing my fingers closer to the insides of his thighs.  I step back around him, tracing my fingers over his hip. He’s sways toward me, weight shifting from his heels to the balls of his feet. “How many knives do you have hidden in these absurd boots?”

“Umm.  Two. Are you - are you done?  You’re quite . . . thorough.”

“Not quite.”  I step next to him.  Not quite touching - just teasingly close.   “You were going to show me something?”

“I, yes, . . . oh hell -”  He steps back and leans over, bringing his mouth to mine.  One hand clutches my upper arm, the other curls around my cheek.  I push back into him, pulling his bottom lip between my teeth, biting about as hard as I dared to do while avoiding drawing blood.  He moans. “You don't have to be that gentle.”

I laugh with impish glee and grab his hands, tugging him back into the reading room, to one of the multiple napping nests scattered throughout the shop.  Shoving him down on the cushions, I peel off his gloves and then straddle his lap and push aside the collar of his shirt to kiss, bite, suck at the pale skin there.  His head lolls back and his hands trace their way down my back fingers digging into my ass, then pulling back up, sliding to the front and under my shirt to cup my breasts, thumbs drawing ever tighter circles around my nipples.  I whine into his neck and run my hands through his hair, accidentally nudging the band holding the patch over his eye. His hands pull away from me, and he quickly fumbles the band back into place.

“Hey, slow down a little.”  He takes my shoulders and pushes me back from him before sitting up.  “I'm not going to run away or anything.” He pushes my hair out of my face, then leans down and kisses me slowly, teasing his tongue between my lips.

“Mmm . . . maybe you should.”  I push him down again and walk my fingers down his sternum.

“I’m not known for making good decisions.”

I tug his shirt free from the waistband of his trousers, pull the fabric aside, and run my hand over the smooth skin of his stomach then up to his chest, pushing my fingers through the not immoderate amount of hair there.  “You’re suspiciously free of scars for a former pirate.”

“Oh, um, long story there, I was more the ship’s doctor than -”

I kiss him to cut him off.  “You’re talking too much, Julian.”

“Um, yes, talking too much, I do -”

“Shh.”  I press a single finger against his lips then replace it with my mouth, sinking into the kiss for as long as I can without breaking for breath.  When I finally do, I shift all my weight to my left leg and roll onto my back, tugging at Julian’s arm to bring him with me. He knocks his head against a low shelf as he turns, face scrunching up in a wince.  The shelf rattles and a knick knack falls into the floor. I pick up the figure and trace my fingers over the small fox - painted in a fanciful pattern of purple and white - and frown, propping myself up on my elbows and looking around the room, suddenly remembering a comment he made the other night.

“I don't remember there ever being a skull in here.”

“What?”  He looks confused.

“The other night you said something about the creepy skull being gone.”  I sit up and touch my fingers lightly where he knocked his head on the shelf, willing the temperature of the air around my fingers to drop by a few degrees.

“Oh - that, feels - I mean, don’t worry about that, not a bad bump.  It’ll be fine in a minute really.” He pulls my hand away from his head.  “Just how much magic has he taught you?”

“Some.”  Often it doesn’t feel like Asra teaches me anything; he just suggests that some task or another can be accomplished with magic, and I just somehow already know how to do it.  “About this skull?”

“You switch moods this quickly all the time?”

“Everyday except fifth Wednesdays.  Those are usually pretty stable.”

Julian sighs and rolls his good eye at me.  It’s bad joke. I know. I don’t care. “He had it on a shelf in the corner.  Kind of charred. Some kind of memento mori, I guess. Definitely macabre.”

Macabre, eh?  Not one of the many adjectives that I would generally apply to Asra, but it’s not difficult to imagine him going there.  "Never seen it." I take his hand in mine and turn it over in mine tracing the lines on his palm. “Is this your dominant hand?”  I pull it closer to my face, peering at the life line curling around his thumb.

“Huh?  Yes. Anyway, I think, maybe, he was in a, uh, peculiar state of mind at the time.  Maybe more than I realized.”

“Asra is quite peculiar all the time.”  Beautifully so, but very much so. I press my lips to Julian's palm.  “You have an interesting hand.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.  Your lifeline.  It actually breaks here.”  I point to the jag in the crease.  It’s faint, but definitely a break, not a ring or a concurrency of fainter lines.  “I’ve only seen that on one other palm.”

“Oh. Whose?”

“Mine.”  I hold my hand out and point to the strange break.  The break in his is faint, but the life line stops sharply on my palm, for a good half centimeter or so, before picking back up again, just as abruptly.  “Asra refuses to tell me what it means.” And the books on palmistry in languages I knew had mysteriously disappeared at the same time I asked.

An insistent knocking begins at the front door of the shop.  I'm ready to ignore it, but the knocking turns into the ringing of the chimes tied in the doorframe to alert me when a customer comes in.  I roll my eyes. Forgot to lock the door _again_.

“We're closed!”

“Dema?”

The voice is Portia's.  Julian's uncovered eye goes wide, and he hastily scrambles out of the floor, redoing the fastenings of his trousers and looking around for an exit.  “Just stay back here,” I whisper to him. I pull myself upright, quickly do up the buttons on my shirt, and push my fingers through my hair before stepping out into the main room of the shop.

“Portia, it's not noon already -?”

She isn't looking at me.  Her eyes are trained up and over my shoulder where Julian has pushed aside the curtain.  Her hands are at her side, curled into fists and shaking.

“Il - Ilya!”

She grabs at his arms with hands that I’ve only seen tremble once before, when the Countess announced her intention to hang the missing Dr. Devorak.  “You, you, bastard, _shto ty delaesh?_ Are you trying to get caught?”

“You've grown up, Pasha.  I'm sorry I wasn't - _prostii menya_.”

I think back to the barely legible letter I found in his desk.  Is Portia the sister he has addressed it to?

“You... Oh, I'll show you sorry, you...”

Suddenly she looks over at me, blue eyes going wide.  I raise my hands and side step behind the counter and toward the stairs to flee before she turns her tongue on me.  “Umm, I'll be upstairs.”

I put the pumpkin bread away on a shelf and then decide against tea and for curling back up in my bed.  Between not sleeping at night and the events of the past few days, I’m completely drained and few more minutes of rest will be welcome.  I hug a pillow to my chest and allow my thoughts to meander into a dream.

_A small white fox curls up beside me, tongue lolling.  It whines with pleasure as I run my hands through its fluffy fur.  I choose my eyes for a moment, and when I open them again, the fox has become Asra._

_“Master.” I twine my fingers tighter into his hair._

_“Mmm.”  He catches both my hands in one of his pinning my wrists above my head.  His hands have always struck me as large in comparison to his height. He balances himself over me, weight resting on one knee between my legs.  “Don't call me that.” He leans down and kisses the corner if my mouth._

_“Asra.”_

_“Better.”  He kisses the other side of my mouth. I whine and arch my back, pushing closer to him.  Teasing, he kisses my forehead, before coming back to my mouth._

_“Do you love me?”_

_With the question, our positions are reversed.  We're still in bed in the upstairs of the shop, but I'm looking down at him, straddling his torso and holding his hands above his head.  The light has changed from the cool light of morning to a warm, afternoon glow, and the beginnings of laugh lines don't mark the corners of his eyes.  He's smiling easily, without any trace that he's holding part of himself back._

_“Do you love me, Dema?”_

_I lift a hand away from his wrist to strike his face, then lean forward to kiss him, taking my time with his beautiful lips.  “Of course,” I whisper as I pull back from him. “Always. I'll love you forever.” This scene has been scripted, but I'm not an actor in it.  I am myself, but these words have already been fixed at some point in time. “If you'll let me.”_

_He brings his free hand to my face as the light changes back to what it was before, and his face becomes guarded again.  “Ah, dear heart, how I want to!"_

* * *

 

“Dema?”  

Portia’s voice pulls me out of my dreams.  With a groan I roll back out of bed and stumble to the top of the stairs, beckoning her to come up to the apartment.  She looks around nervously, then climbs the stairs. I take her elbow and lead her to the kitchen. I need tea before I can possibly manage another conversation.

“Umm...” She stares as I wake the stove salamander and start a pot of water to boil.  “So, my brother, Ilya . . .”

“He’s the Julian Devorak the Countess wants to hang.”  I measure tea leaves - Keemun, not as smoky as Lapsang Souchong, but better with milk and still plenty strong - into our well used pot and set it next to the stove.  Looking across the table at Portia, I gesture for her to sit. “What do you want to do with that?”

She sits down and looks at her hands. “Does it matter what I want?”

Her posture and the question emphasize the resemblance between the two of them; Portia’s red hair and blue eyes are the brighter, color saturated version of Julian’s auburn and grey.  What happened when they were young, that neither of them believe that simply wanting something, some outcome is acceptable? I pour boiling water over the leaves and sit down across from her, sighing loudly.

“Why shouldn't it matter what you want?  Or I want? Or anyone wants? We may or may not get it, but that's different from whether it matters.”  I lean over the pot breathing in the scented steam while the tea steeps. “Julian is your brother. If he's caught, he hangs.  Are you alright with that?”

She folds her hands in front of her. “No. Are you?”

I shake my head. “No, I don't want him to hang.  I don’t think he’s guilty.”

Portia visibly relaxes and looks up at me, face brightening. “Great - we're partners then!  We can show Milady that he's innocent."

I take a mug from the center of the table, fill it with tea, and push it across to her. “Partners.  I like the sound of that.” I pour tea into my own mug and knock it against hers. I suspect I’m going to need whatever help I can get.  We drink our tea in companionable silence for a moment, then I grin and arch an eyebrow at her. “You know, I think you’re the only person I’ve met recently who I haven’t done a reading for.  Shall I?”

Portia claps her hands together in glee, visibly excited by the idea.  "Ooo, yes! Love! Romance!” She rolls the r dramatically and pretends to swoon.  "Tell me about that."

My bag is where I left it on the table.  I dig out Asra’s deck and unwrap the silk from around the cards.  "Someone in particular?”

Her cheeks redden as she smiles.  "Not exactly."

"Hmm."  I give the cards a single shuffle and then outside then across to her.  Usually, I handle them myself, but Portia's hands are sure and steady, and I don't fear an impromptu game of seventy eight card pick up.  She shuffles the cards, cuts the deck, and shuffles them again before pushing them back across the table to me. I lay out the first five cards in a cross pattern: center, right, left, above, and below.  "Flip the center card over first."

Biting her bottom lip, she turns the card over.  Seven of Cups, upright.

I arch my eyebrows at her and shake my head in mock disapproval.  

"What?  What it is?”

"So this card tells me about you, right now.  And Miss Portia, I do believe you might be spoilt for choice.  Is that what you meant by ‘not exactly’ a particular someone?"

The color rises in her cheeks, almost matching her hair.  "Well, I, um..."

"But careful though, not all your choices are equal.  Maybe this card will help." I tap the card to the right of the center.  "It speaks to the characteristics."

Portia, still blushing, turns it over.  The King of Swords. "Hmm-” I press my finger to my lips, miming seriousness.  It's something of a relief to be back in this role, doing a light hearted romance reading, after all the high stakes and somewhat grim spreads I’ve been reading.  Dragging it out is attractive - it’s relaxing to just follow my intuitions rather than hearing more specific message from the cards. Portia will be happy enough to play along with a bit of melodrama.  "Your love will be a serious person. Skillful, logical. You'll lighten them, and they'll steady you." There's a small smile playing on Portia's lips. _Now_ she has a particular person in mind.  "You think you know who they are?"

"Maybe."  She bites her bottom lip and runs her finger over the card.  "I kinda hope so. I mean, I hope it’s the person I’m thinking of."

I motion to the card on the left.  She turns over the Page of Cups. "So this card describes how you'll meet, or in this case, how you've already met."  The cards aren't whispering the me right now, but when I close my eyes I can hear the crashing of ocean waves behind the page.  "The sea, I think." Portia's mouth is hanging open in surprise when I open my eyes. "Is it still who you think?”

She nods and the corners of her crinkle with delight.  I smile at her. "They're about to come back into your life.  You should be open to reunion, reestablishing the relationship."

"What are the other two cards?"  She looks excited now, leaning over the table.  

"The one at the top first.  It'll tell us something about the nature of this relationship."

She flips it over eagerly and looks at me with wide expectant eyes.  The Seven of Pentacles. Fitting for Portia, and the card makes sense in relationship with the King of Swords.  "Both of you are hard workers. Yours will be a productive union. Turn the last card."

She turns over the Star.  I smile. This is a fortuitous reading, and Portia, with her kind nature, deserves it.

"Ooo.... This is a pretty card!  What does it mean?”

"It's called the Star.  Both your labors will have a pay off.  You'll enjoy rest and peace together. Happiness with each other.  And look at this." I trace my finger down the horizontal axis. "All these cards are associated with the number seven, which suggests the arrival of something that has been looked forward to for a time.  Especially when the Star is involved. But-"

“What?  But what?”

“The cards aren’t any sort of promise.  There are a lot of choices in here. I tap the Page of Cups.  First, there’s the question of whether you and this person will choose to reconnect when you meet again.  And -” I move my fingers to the Seven of Pentacles. “You’ll both need to put effort into maintaining the relationship.  Your jobs might at time result in you being apart. But the Star says that it will be worth it.”

Portia finishes her tea and compliments the pumpkin bread profusely before hurrying out to oversee the announcement.  I rinse out the teapot before putting it away. I want to try to summon Asra again to the fountain. Some magics work better with a physical object to stabilize them.  Perhaps I can find something in the shop that is just so essentially Asra that it will make the connection stronger. And, if I’m lucky, keep him from disappearing on me.   _Again_.

There’s any number of objects in the shop that are Asra’s.  Little figurines painted in cheerful colors. An old bird’s nest tucked in a window as if it’s waiting for the mother to return.  Jewelry. Some absolute junk, some of impressively high quality and all tossed haphazardly into the same lacquered box. A hand mirror with a crack running down the center.  A basket of seashells and stones. Twigs and dried flowers tied into little bundles. All it is Asra, but nothing is precisely _Asra_.  

I give up when I hear cheers from the street outside.  Portia’s announcement must be going well. And, with that, I suppose I should get back to the square before the wagons left.  Unless, of course, I wanted to walk back to the Palace on my own. I grab one of Asra’s multi colored scarves and wrap it around it around my shoulders, wondering if this will finally fit the definition of appropriate wear for the Palace.  Although, to be honest, part of me wants to appear in the most hideous outfit I can muster, just to see the look on the Countess’s face.

When I make it back to the town square, the announcement has turned it into an impromptu festival.  There’s a brass band playing at one end and a circle of drummers at the other. Servants from the palace wander the crowd, handing out candies and paper masks.  Street vendors are doing brisk business in snacks. I can already here discussions of possible costumes and plans for smaller gatherings as I push through the crowd.

"Dema!  Over here."  Artemis waves to me from where she's standing next to a pillar.  Her enthusiasm is exceeded by that of the toddler perched on her shoulders.  He extends his chubby little arms out and echos my name. Most of his excitement is from the hoopla surrounding the announcement.  And, sitting on Artemis's tall shoulders, Tam can see everything.

The air is filled with rice and confetti.  His older sister, Eurydice, is chasing soap bubbles nearby, closely shadowed by Artemis's wife.  Sibyl, too, is batting at the bubbles and laughing.

Artemis crouches down when I reach her to let me kiss Tam and ruffle his hair.  He pats my cheek with sticky, two year old fingers and shouts, "up, up, up." She stands again, holding his ankles firmly and looks me over with a grin.

"You look tired.  Have anything to do with this spectacle?”

"No.  Not directly anyway."  I lean back against the pillar and cross my arms over my chest.  Someone had put a lot of effort into planning and preparing for this announcement though.  Portia would be my first guess.

"The Countess is putting you through your paces then?"

"You could say that."  I'm not quite yet over the little game she played with me yesterday.  Knowing about her memory loss makes me a touch more sympathetic to her, but at his point, my cooperation with her is a matter of clearing Julian.  "Artemis, the other morning, when I said the name Julian -"

"Yes?”  Her eyes narrow and the tone of her voice becomes cautious.

"You recognized the name.  Julian Devorak, do you know him?"

She's quiet for a moment.  Tam starts to pull at her hair and she reaches up to bat his hand away.  "I worked some with Dr. Devorak during the plague."

"Very tall, red hair, eyepatch?”  There couldn't be that many people named Julian Devorak, especially not Dr. Julian Devorak, but just to be sure.

"The eyepatch is new."  Her son pulls at her hair again, and she lifts him from her shoulders, shifting him to her hip.  "But the rest: tall, red headed - drama queen. Why do ask?"

"The Countess believes he killed the Count."  

Artemis dissolves in a fit of laughter.  Tam looks down at her in confusion then holds out his arms to me.  I take him from her. He pats my cheeks then tucks his head against my shoulder and wraps an arm around my neck.  Without Tam in her arms, Artemis doubles over in her fit of mirth. She finally catches her breath and slaps her thighs in amusement.  "Julian? That boy? Kill someone? Even an absolute parasite like Lucio? No."

"How are you sure?”

"Have you met him?”

"Well -"

"Wait."  She stops, looking down at me with concern.  "You have met him? And he didn't . . . Fucking hell! Asra, you son of a bi - biscuit."  She belated puts a hand over Tam’s ear, then peers closely at me and touches my temple. "You're okay right?”

"I'm fine.  Why? What about Asra?  I know he and Julian were together.  Don't ask how, I just do."

"Yeah, I tried to stop that.  Idiot boy didn't listen to me any more than you do."

"What _did_ Asra do?"   

She strokes her son's desk curly hair.  "I can honestly tell you that I don't know exactly what Asra did.  And it's not that no good came of it, but there are some lines I don't think we're meant to cross, even if it's our heart's desire."  She leans over and kisses the top of the child's head. Her forehead brushes against mine, and she lets it rest there for a breath.

“I knew Julian too, didn’t I?  I mean before.”

She straightens back up and sighs, eyes darting away from me and then back to my face.  “You don’t really need me to answer that, do you? Listen, Julian is a good man, no matter what melodramatic nonsense he may be prattling on about these days.  In general, trust him. You just may need to smack him around a bit every now and then for acting like a fool."

The sound of tiny sandals slapping against paving stones pulls her attention away from me and to someone behind me.  "Mommy, look what I have!” Eurydice runs up clutching a double handful of hard candies wrapped in paper. Sibyl trails a foot or two behind her, dimples in her cheeks from a smile. "Mama said I have to ask you how many I can eat at once."  

"Oh, did she now?”  

Sibyl shrugs apologetically, and Artemis rolls her eyes.  "Tell you what. You can have one now and two after dinner, or two now and one after dinner."  Eurydice huffs and twists her lips in concentration, debating between the options.

Tam lifts his head off my shoulder and looks over at Sibyl, squirming in my arms with a hand reached out to her.  She coos to him. "Aww, is my little one sleepy? Thanks for holding him, Dema." She takes him from me. "Artemis said you were working for the Countess?  How's that going?”

"It's -" I smooth my blouse from where holding Tam had rumpled it.  "Interesting. But I don't think I want a permanent job."

Sibyl smiles warmly.  "Good. We'd miss you around here."  She's never been anything other than kind to me.  Eurydice tugs at her skirt. “Hmm, we better get home, your brother is sleepy.  See you soon, Dema.”

Artemis hugs me quickly then tucks Eurydice’s extra candies away in a pocket before taking the little girl’s hand.  “Be careful, Dema. Find me if you need me.”

The crowds begin to clear as the brass band finishes up and the palace servants return to the wagons.  I walk across the square and find Portia, who is unsurprisingly directing the clean up organization. She pulls me up into the wagon and into an exuberant hug.  The wagon’s jerk to a start, nearly toppling us both over, but she only laughs and throws more rice out into the crowd. After the wagon pulls out of the square, she plops down beside me and tosses an arm around my shoulders.

“Well, Dema, think you’re ready to meet the courtiers?”

“The -?  Oh.” Between the prior night and the events of this morning, I had forgotten that the Countess intended to introduce me to the rest of the court this afternoon.  There’s no way that I’m ready to meet the rest of the court.

“Don’t worry.”  Portia pats my shoulder.  “I’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	8. Built With Stolen Parts

“Built with stolen parts

A telephone in my heart

Someone get me a priest

To put my mind to bed

This ringing in my head

Is this a cure or is this a disease?”

~Audioslave, ‘Show Me How to Live’

  
  


At the palace, Portia laces me back into the same white dress from last night and redoes my hair.  Armor, I remind myself, as she paints the foreign feeling make up on my face. She leads me back through the hallways to another room within the palace, one that I haven’t yet seen.  This room is intended, I suppose, to be less intimidating than dining room. Cool blue wallpaper dominates the color scheme, accented with touches of gold and marble. Nadia is ensconced in one corner, plucking delicately at a harp.  She looks up and gives us the barest of nods. A tall, thin figure in a double pointed headdress on the other side of the room catches my attention. Their back is to the rest of the occupants, and they stare out the window, preternaturally still.  Portia clears her throat, drawing the attention of the other figures in the room, and announces me. 

“The Countess’s magician, Dema -”  She pauses, realizing that she’s never asked for my surname.

“Strayhorn.  Dema Strayhorn.”

Formality of the announcement passed, three of the room’s occupants spring into action converging on me.  A funny little woman with one blind, drooping eye pats the space next to her on a sofa. A tiered dish of pastries and tiny cakes - or rather, what remains of them - are on the low table in front of her.  “Oh, you must come sit next to me. Countess Nadia has provided us with the best snacks.” She seems friendly enough, a bit child-like with her giddy talk of snacks and giggles happily when I settle beside her.  “I’m Procurator Volta.”

“Volta, you can’t hog the magician.”  A portly figure, dressed all in red plops down on the couch placed perpendicular to ours and holds out a gauntleted hand.  I briefly touch my fingers to it, worrying about cuts from the sharp edges. “Not when we’ve heard so much about her. Pontifex Vulgora.”

“Yes, we’ve just been dying to meet you.”  An old man in flowing black robes hovers across the table from Volta and me, fingers wiggling in excitement.  His skin is a corpse like shade of gray and long pointed ears droop from beneath a ceremonial hat. “I’m Praetor Vlastomil.  You must tell us all about yourself. Your business, your hobbies!” 

“Yes!”  The red figure to my right pounds their fist against the arm of the sofa.  I expect to feathers begin to fly from the upholstery. “Perhaps you enjoy the martial arts?”

“Well, no, I -”

“Or baking?  I do love having friends who bake!”  Volta claps her hands together in glee, excited by the very notion of baked goods - what a strange little woman!  I’m almost reluctant to disappoint her, but I’d quickly starve if left to my own devices in a kitchen.

“Um, I don’t cook, but I garden, um, some.”

The Praetor’s long ears perk up.  “Gardening you say? How wonderful!  Do you have a healthy population of worms in your garden?  They’re so important for soil structure and aeration! Most people just don’t appreciate all that worms do.”

A conspicuously silent man, sitting in an armchair opposite of Volta with a glass of red wine in hand, sniffs and looks entirely unimpressed.  He’s so pale that I wonder if he’s ever before allowed his skin to be in direct sunlight, and the thick, dark hair that is held back in a loose braid emphasizes his unhealthy, albeit human pallor.  

"Valeri!  Don't you want to introduce yourself?"  The small one, Volta, speaks to him familiarity vibrating in her voice.  He raises a heavy brow and looks over to me, judging if I might care about that knowledge, or be worthy of it, I'm not sure.

He takes a slow drink of his wine and looks me over, gaze inscrutable.  "I would not go that far as to say that I’m dying to meet her."

"Oh, don't be like that, dear Valeri.  I'm sure she's a sweetheart! And competent, if the Countess makes her her own!"

A little twitch of his pale lips, and another sip from his glass of wine, perhaps just intended to make things bearable.  I wouldn't mind some wine myself, but I suspect he's not the person to ask. And something about the way his lips twitched when Volta said the word competent pissed me off.  Especially if he was the Consul Valerius who been allowing the city to run into the ground. "No need to die on my behalf, Valeri." I adopt Volta's familiar name and wait for his reaction.

He ignores me.  No surprise there.  "And who am I, dearest Volta, to doubt the competency of any of the illustrious people gather here?"  I'm amazed I'm the only one who recognizes this as sarcasm. Volta beams with pride, and Vulgora seems to fluff up even more.  His eyes are on me now, pale and resigned under heavy brows. "Portia, I think our guest cares for a drink."

"Of course."  Portia reaches over the back of the sofa, pressing an overly full glass of wine into my hand with a wink.  

I take a sip, it’s mostly minerally with a hint of leather, and stare at the Consul over the rim.  "Indeed, I've certainly never seen anything in the city that would lead me to think that someone in this esteemed gathering could be incompetent."

"It is as if everyone here focused all of their efforts on ensuring the city's prosperity, isn't it?”  He raises his eyebrows at me, perhaps an iota more interested than he was before. “Truly a marvelous display of reason and renunciation."

Is he testing me?  Or just not expecting for anyone to listen to him anyway?  

"Well,"  I raise my wine glass slightly.  "Certainly one wouldn't want to renounce all of one’s interests.  But it is so easy to confuse one's own interests with the good of all.  A  _ common _ vanity, if you will."

"Sometimes that vanity blooms from understanding that any endeavor one might undertake will only amount to nothing, no matter whose interests are served.  There's a certain serenity in accepting that, don't you think so? Volta?"

"Mh?"  She looks up, crumbs around her small mouth. "Yes, Valeri, of course."  She clearly hasn’t heard his statement, or hasn’t comprehended it, but she beams with a snaggletooth, pleased to be the recipient of attention.  When she licks the crumbs from her lips, I see a tiny sigh escaping Valerius’s pouty lips. He drinks, not in response to my gesture, but more as though the wine is necessary to wash away the things he witnesses here.

I can't blame him.  The occupants of the room lack any definite order or purpose.  Nadia idly strokes her harp, seemingly too lost in her own musings to play the role of hostess.  Both Volta and Vulgora seem to be more interested in the offerings of the kitchen, while the pale praetor continues to rhapsodize about the effect of having a sufficient population of worms in the soil, undeterred by the plain fact that no one is listening to him.  The still figure by the window has turned to face the room. They're watching us, red eyes slowly scanning back and forth across the room, but there's no sign that they intend to speak. Just as well, the sight of them is making my skin crawl. "So, Consul - it is Consul, right? - perhaps you can explain how things work at court."

"The esteemed magician asks an open question that would take more time to answer than I'd dare to keep the pleasant company here from their  _ important _ duties. Do you wish to cut it down to what you crave to know most, or do you wish an audience in private?"

Vulgora cackles at the comment, living up entirely to their name.  I'm not sure if their laughter makes it dirtier than the Consul intended or not, but one corner of his mouth pulls  upwards. He seems amused enough by the outcome. It takes effort, and Portia's hand briefly touching my shoulder as she fills my wine glass, but I manage to avoid rolling my eyes or making my own snippy remarks.

"Well then, perhaps just you, Consul.”  I keep my voice even. At least, as even as I can.  "What do you do  _ for _ the city?”

And he tells me, giving me a textbook definition of his responsibilities, tone distant and emotionless, sips from his glass becoming more frequent as he goes on.  Again, nobody seems to listen. Vulgora has started an argument over something with Vlastomil. Bones seem to play an important role in it, while Volta watches Nadia play the harp in what seems like honest adoration.  

Valerius seems slightly nauseated as he continues on about the role of a consul, and how vital the position can be to the order of the city.  His lecture is interrupted by frequent sips from his wineglass. How aware of his failures is he? I almost feel bad for prodding him. Almost.  He finishes with a resigned sigh and a long drink of wine before gesturing to Portia to top off both our glasses. 

"Thank you."  I glance down at the crystal goblet my hands.  The fine silver chasing around the rim had been allowed to tarnish.  Unexpected, given the precision with which the palace's staff appeared to operate.  No matter. I raise my eyes back to Valerius. "The Countess tells me she wants my help in solving Lucio's murder the restore order to the city.  But it's hard to envision what that might look like."

He throws me a look and forces a smile. "Her Excellency surely is only too willing to share her vision of the future with you?"

"If the Countess has invited me as an investigator, surely it's part of my job to seek out multiple accounts."

"And it would spoil my account to give it in front of the others, don't you think?" Something around his eyes looks like he's trying to ask  _ nicely _ without being remotely good at it. "If you have the time, that is, to spend a few minutes with my boring stories."

I very much doubt I'll find his account boring.  If nothing else his sarcasm will keep me entertained.  "I'm sure that I can find some spare time, Consul."

"But you?"  A cool gloved hand folds around my shoulder.  I stiffen at the unexpected touch and twist around.  The figure behind me is the same that was standing so very still in front of the window only moments before.  "What role do you play? Should you even be here, little witch?”

"Quaestor."  The harp music suddenly stops, and Nadia rouses herself from her corner.  "Please do not frighten my guest."

"I'm not frightened."  It's a lie, and I suspect the grey green possibly not a human person standing behind me knows it.  But if I say it with enough confidence perhaps I'll convince myself.

"Nonetheless, what is your purpose?”

Nadia answers for me as she strides across the room.  "A benevolent universe brought Dema to me in my hour of need.  To help me lay the matter of my husband's murder to rest. A task that the five of you have failed to manage."

I'm not sure what the Countess means by her first statement.  From what little I know of it, the universe is rarely benevolent.  As for the rest, Valerius hides his face in his wine glass yet again, and Volta pauses in her nibbling to look down at her tiny hands.  Vlastomil twists his hands in dismay. "Countess, I assure you I have left no worm - no stone unturned."

Vulgora slams their first on the arm of the sofa in anger.  "If you would just let me smash a faces and crush a finger or two -"

"Silence.  There will be no crushing fingers and smashing faces."

"Not that those things would help us achieve our goal."  The Quaestor's speaks with an uncanny cadence, each syllable and pause measured to the millisecond.

"I hope that our goals align, Quaestor."

"Do they?  I know mine, Countess.  Do you even know what yours are?"  Without moving a muscle or changing their tone of voice, they shift between conversations.  “Vlastomil, I do believe that the majority of bone decomposition comes from microbial activity, not the action of worms.  And Vulgora, the crushing of bones only exposes a greater surface area to such action. The mechanical break up itself does little else.  Both of you are quite incorrect.”

The Countess’s eyes flash and her lips tighten into a thin, annoyed line.  “That’s quite enough your morbid talk. You’ve tried my patience sufficiently for a single evening, all of you.  Portia, please, see that all my guests are served dinner in their chambers.”

With a huff, Vulgora gets up from the sofa and stalks out of the room.  Volta looks over at Nadia and mouths an apology before scurrying behind them.  Simpers is the best verb to describe how the Praetor leaves the room. The Quaestor remains standing perfectly still behind me.  I straighten my spine, sitting still, as if I’m trying to avoid attracting the attention of a predator. Nadia glare is focused on the space just over my head, and I can feel the Quaestor’s eyes drilling into the back of my head.

The Consul clears his throat.  “Magician, would you care for another glass of wine?  We could continue our conversation without further distractions.”

“Um, yes.”  I edge to the side and then quickly get away from the sofa and the Quaestor.  “That’s an excellent idea.” 

The Consul raises one eyebrow in amusement.  He stands up slowly from his chair and rearranges his robes.  “Countess.” He inclines his head ever so slightly to Nadia who doesn’t remove her eyes from the Quaestor.

“Good evening, Consul.”  Her is cool.     

* * *

 

The most baffling fact about the whole evening was that the Consul has an honest to the heavens  _ office _ , the kind with a desk and paperwork that he likely works on  _ himself _ , even if it is a really nice desk of dark wood set with marquetry, gleaming from frequent applications of polish.  The scent of old paper and ink and wine fills the air, and he offers me a chair that is clearly the one for the more important visitors.

That consideration is unexpected.  He pours another glass of wine for me, then one for himself, giving me a stern look, when my fingers touch a paper on his desk.  I mumbled an apology and take the wine from him.

"Judging from what you have seen," he opens, "how do  _ you _ think the court works?"

"From what I've seen, I'm not entirely sure that the court does work."

"Imagine the court to be less occupied with themselves and actually directing their attention outward.  Is that what you wish?"

I take a drink of my wine.  "I'm not sure that I specifically want  _ their _ attention on the city.  But functional leadership would be welcome."

His face freezes for a moment, but then a laugh bubbles up, one that has lost any trace of good humor, and descended into the depths of compensatory irony.  “That it would, but I daresay it would still fail as much as it did when -" He prefers to drink instead of finishing the sentence, but in my head it ends with "- when I tried."

Who else had tried?  "What leads you to be such a cynic about the city?”

"I do not know if you remember the glorious days before Lucio filled the throne with his overabundant self.  You may be too young - even for me the vision comes more from stories than from things I've witnessed. Do not misunderstand me, Magician, but I wish your undertaking to fail.  Not gloriously, but just to fizzle out like cheap fireworks. Even if it was Devorak who killed him, the city is off better without being reminded of the whole affair. I told the Countess as much, but she very much does not wish me to doubt her decisions - something she seems to have learned from her late husband."

Much more than simple disapproval of Nadia’s plans or a concern for the collective psyche of the city underlies that statement.  Some grim tug at the strings of his closed off heart. I wonder if he tends to wake up with stomach pain. His face looks the part of a man with an ulcer.    “Dredges up unpleasant memories?”

He hesitates, then nods. "I knew him too long.  Too well. Maybe better than the countess does, and so did Devorak."  A hasty, uncharacteristically unrefined gulp from his wine glass. It’s hard for him to admit that.

I suspect that's as much as I'm going to get out of him on that topic for the moment, but it's one to return to, if I can get him around to the point that he'll trust me with the information.  "And you're not convinced that Juli - Devorak is the culprit?"

He raises his brow as I stumble from the personal to the formal name.  He's more aware of his surroundings than I expected. "Julian, mh? I'd congratulate him if he was, but I doubt he'd be able to willingly hurt a person."

"Congratulate him?"  I hadn't expected that response.

"You are aware how very . . . fragile things are in the city.  Of course, you are. Your questions among the illustrious company earlier were just to see if I was as well.  See, Magician, if the Count remained in place, I very much doubt there'd be a city to be worried about now. His constant need of amusement emptied the treasury.  He liked to think he was generous, giving the people all sorts of entertainment, but he took from them first in taxes and tariffs.” Another sip of wine soothes some of the irritation in his voice.  “While the Countess' lifestyle is expensive enough, it is not bleeding everything dry."

"I see.  So, why does the Countess tell me that the 'illustrious company' insists that Devorak is the guilty one?  How does that serve them?"

His pale eyes are on me as he refills the glasses without looking.  "I do think you already know the answer."

"So, what does it gain them?  To have a patsy?" The three that I had conversed with didn't seem like they had enough concentration or intellect between them to think that far ahead, but I suppose that the witlessness could have been an act.  "And the Quaestor? What’s with them?"

Valerius blinks, and his face becomes even paler as he shudders.  "Ah. _  Them _ .  Valdemar, the head of research.  I try to block them out of my world as far as possible, and . . . I would suggest avoiding them if you can.  If they were food, even Volta wouldn't be able to stomach them."

"That - "  I think back to Volta's continuous munching during the gathering.  "Says quite a bit. How do they relate to the other three courtiers?"

"They don't.  At least not that I know of, but that says precious little these days.  They may use the others as a diversion for all I know, as they may intend to do with Devorak."

"So, let's say Devorak didn't do it and shouldn't be hanged.  How do I go about proving that?"

"It depends.  Do you think he's still alive?"

"Why would the Countess be hunting for him if she doesn't have some reason to believe that he is?"

"Would you not prefer to have a  _ goal _  instead of complex realities if you could choose to have one?  And I have to admit, Devorak has proved harder to kill than the most, so she might have heard something she didn't share with me.  That is how it goes, isn't it? A lack of trust and questionable secrets lead to more trouble than they're worth." 

I can understand the preference for a specific goal over the complicated nature of reality.  As for trust, Nadia had said that she wasn't certain of her courtiers, and my initial appraisal of them led me to agree.  Except, perhaps the Consul. He had been fairly open with me, and it seemed like his intentions were honorable enough. He could be an ally - a much needed one.  Someone with intact memories would be useful. "Devorak is alive."

"Good on him."  He empties the glass with one gulp.  "You will excuse if I forget this the moment you leave the room?"

"Forget what?”  I smile surely and take another drink of the wine.  I thought what the Countess served at dinner was good, but this is another level entirely.  For the first time, I see him smile. It's small and barely there, but it makes him look like . . . less of a pretentious bitch, really.

"Has he learned in the past years to keep his head down?"

"Well, that would be rather difficult for him."

"You would have to teach him to spend more time on his knees, which shouldn't pose a problem for all I know."  His face the usual blank and slightly tired mask.

"I, um -"  I grasp for words, stuttering about as badly as Julian.  I may have played my cards badly here, but they're on the table now.  "I think I can manage that." I realize how bad that sounds about the time I finish the sentence.  The wine. I'll blame the wine.

"You, of course, would be glad to let him get away, because you have taken a liking to him.  What do your cards say about him? Have you asked them?" He is polite enough to change the subject.  Not something that I would have expected from him.

"After a fashion."  Technically Julian had asked the cards, but that seemed like splitting hairs.  "I didn't envy what they had to say."

"You, of course, will ask your cards about me.  As you will ask Portia, who will surely describe me as an amazingly boring drunkard.  No, she'd probably use, let me think . . .  _ wino _ ?"

"It would be a bit hypocritical for me to judge you for being a wino.  Classier than what I usually drink, at least." I touched the pocket of the dress where my cards were tucked away.  "Would you care to know what the cards have to say about you?"

"As it would be for Portia."  He shrugs and his well-tailored robes fall in dramatic folds for a moment. "It is far easier to see the little foibles of other people than your own. As for your cards, indeed, I would like to hear, even if I can't promise I will listen."

I reach into the pocket of the dress and pull out the deck.  But when I unfold the fabric, the cards aren't Asra's. It's my own traditional deck, worn corners and all.  Sitting back in the chair, I fan the cards in my fingers and cut the deck several times, just to convince myself that the deck truly is mine.  I had transferred Asra’s deck to my pocket after getting dressed. This deck should be at the shop, tucked away in a laquered box on the back room shelf.  Where I had left it. How did they come to be in my hands now?

“What is it, Magician?”

“Nothing.”  I don’t understand how I’ve ended up with deck.  But it’s a relief. These cards feel warm and familiar.  “I was thinking. About what spread to use.” The Consul’s eyebrows raise.  He sees through the statement; I said the words too quickly, but he doesn’t comment on it.  Hands moving quickly, I set aside the decanter of wine, clearing space on the table between us.  “Do you have a question, Consul?”

He waves a hand dismissively.  “Not particularly.”

I shuffle the cards, happy to have them in my hands again.  “Then past, present, and future. Cut them.”

He arches an eyebrow at me and reaches across the table, lifting up a portion of the cards, seeming a random, setting them to the side and then restacking the deck.  “Go ahead, Magician.”

I deal the cards out - three rows by three columns -  and flip over the uppermost left. The Knight of Pentacles upright.  There are multiple ways to read any of the Knights, but I feel this one speaking to me.  The whispers from the cards aren't some property of Asra’s deck then - not if they continue now.  I'm not sure what I think of that . . . It was reassuring in a way to attribute the voices to the general cloud of magic that trails Asra.  Now, well, maybe I'm only hearing voices. I close my eyes and repeat what I heard. “You’ve spent your life preparing to serve with nobility.  You’re stern. Not just with others, but with yourself. Your pride comes from meeting the standards that were laid out for you. Competence is the only thing you actually respect.”

“Anyone could have told you that.”

“But that’s not the position you find yourself in now, Consul.”  Messaging from that card - not disapproving, exactly, but disappointed - past, I slip back into myself and explain the spread.  “This row is the past. The other two cards represent events or people who still influence you." I flip them over revealing the upright Two of Swords and the reversed Knight of Swords.  My fingers hover over the Knight. "There was someone in your past. A different kind of egotist. Reckless. Self serving. Inattentive to detail." It whispers a name into my head . . .  _ Lucio. _

I want to ask if the card represents Lucio to the Consul - see if it’s voice holds to some exterior reality, but I hold my tongue and draw my hand back to the reversed Two of Swords.  The swords held by the blindfolded figure draw attention to discord and connection between the two knights. "There were things you didn't see -" The card murmurs, nuancing the statement. “No. You saw, but you didn't want to see them.  And so you ignored them."

Again, he fills our glasses, watching more me than he does the cards, pale eyes expressionless.  I know he's wondering how much I'm drawing from rumors I heard or just  _ guessing _ from the way he holds himself.  Then he draws the Knight a little closer so he can see the illustration better.  Briefly, our fingers touch, his hand icy cold.

"I suppose most of us had a man like this in our lives," he finally comments.  "There are just too many of that kind out there." This is more of an admission than expected.

He’s probably right.  I can think of at least one person in my present to whom the phrases egotist and inattentive to detail could apply.  Reckless and self-serving might still may still be a matter of opinion. And Asra had drawn the Knight of Swords himself three days ago; albeit in a different spread and position.  I return my concerns about Asra to the little caged off corner of my consciousness where they live. Right now, it’s Valerius I have questions about.

I flip over the center card, watching the Consul’s face.  His eyes narrow and his fingers tighten around the stem of his wine glass.  I look down. Beneath my fingertips the reversed Hierophant looks up at me.

“What does that card mean?”  His question is barely a breath.

I close my eyes and wait.  After a few moments I can hear him speaking.  “The Hierophant hands down the traditions of the past to the uninitiated.  He preserves order and guards the keys of the city, intending to bless the inhabitants.  That is what he would choose to do, but he’s only a single link within a chain. He is only as good as those from whom he receives his power.  Despite his good intentions he can become lost.”

"Are those cards..."  His nails click nervously on the wooden table, ". . . based on concepts or on more? Actual . . . beings?"  He chooses the word carefully.

I pause and think for a moment before responding.  The answer is both and neither, but I don't think that will be particularly satisfactory.  "What prevents a concept from being personified?"

"It is your profession to tell  _ me _ that, Magician," he answers after a moment.  At least, he hesitated long enough to  _ think _ about the question, which can probably be considered a success with a man who was clearly determined not to engage in the kind of self reflection it takes to answer an open ended question.  And, to be fair, that question is like the matter of how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. Can a concept become a person? Or a person become a concept? Much of the answer depends on how one defines the very concept of a person.  Yet, I have been  _ hearing _ the cards speak to me, which strikes me as a personal, not a conceptual one.  

"I would say that nothing prevents it.  The cards are based on the personifications of concepts.  So yes, they have a personal nature."

He looks at me.  Have I ever seen eyes so tired?   _ Yes _ , I think, but I forgot  _ where _ .  He rubs his fingertips over his face again.  "But they don't . . . talk to you. Pay personal visitations now and then.  These are no  _ calling cards _ ."

I hesitate.  Despite voices speaking to me of late.  I've never been visited by one of the arcana, but the idea did appear in one of Asra's books.  A sort of higher level intervention into human affairs. "It's not usual, but they certainly can."

"Hm."

Thoughts are rolling behind his smooth forehead, crashing uselessly against the stones of his doubts.  Something worries him, and it is a complicated matter. I don’t care to dance through a tangle of deflections.  Better to be direct. "Have you been visited, Consul?"

"I . . . no. It's just a silly recurring thing in my dreams.  Don't even know why the card reminded me of it."

I expect him to blush, because it seems fashionable these days, but he doesn't.  He drinks instead, and licks his lips.

"You rarely dream of something more than once, unless it is of significance to you."  Enough images appear and reappear in my dreams. I haven’t yet discerned their meanings, but I want to believe that they signify  _ something _ .

The consul muses.  He taps a perfectly manicured finger against his chin then shakes his head.  He’s not ready yet, but perhaps, close. "The future. Tell me about the future."

“The future can only be understood as a possible outcome of the present.  Let me finish with it.” I flip over the card to the left of the Hierophant.  The Eight of Swords upright. I’m silent for a moment, allowing Valerius to examine the illustration.  It’s self-explanatory enough, a figure waking in distress with sword threatening to fall on their head.  “Are you sure you don’t wish to tell me about these dreams of yours?”

Hesitation, again.  For someone who just barely understands that there may be more between heaven and earth and certainly is not comfortable with that idea, he's being very brave.  Well tempered, one might say. Even if he’s not quite ready to engage with the choices in front of him.

"The countess pays you for taking care of her business and be discreet about it, I might pay you for listening to mine one day, when you're less caught up in investigation."

Fair if frustrating.  I'm painfully curious, but it isn't overly likely that Valerius's dreams are directly related to question of who killed Lucio.  Unless Valerius killed Lucio, but despite his comments of congratulating whoever did the deed, something just feels wrong about that notion.  Lucio is much too important to him. I return to the cards, flipping over the one to the right of the Hierophant. A second major arcana and an unfriendly one at that: the Devil.

"The way your face just fell doesn't bide well.  Let me guess. The horned man stands for good fortune and unexpected love?"  He must share my bad feeling when even he is trying to  _ joke _ .

"Yes, and the chains represent freedom.   _ Clearly _ ."  I pause and take a drink of wine.  There’s a distinct aspect of pleasure in engaging with someone just as sarcastic as I am.  And the Devil is blessedly silent, that’s not a card I care to here speaking directly to me be it hallucination or reality.  "You have a good sense of the card I think. It represents being trapped, generally by our own character flaws. We think we're getting something out of continuing as we have, but in reality we're only digging ourselves deeper into a mess."

A tiny twitch in the corner of his mouth.  "It seems your cards share your opinion about me.”

I shrug, but I wouldn't mind if the cards contradicted my own thoughts.  I might worry less that the voices were mere figments of my imagination then.  "Do you see something different in the card? The illustrations are intricate for a reason.  There are general meanings for each, but they're not fixed."

"It seems to depend a lot in whose position you're in with this card. He -" He taps on the horned one. "Holds the reins, after all.  Is liberated from those earthly needs men and women have. Perhaps that would not be so bad."

"Which figure do you identify with?”

Valerius muses briefly, touches on the woman then with her tail turning into leaves. "Passive, but at least not causing destruction everywhere I go.  Could probably easily free my-herself if she only dared to."

He blinks, as if baffled by his own words and gives me a look that reminds me that this conversation will have never taken place as soon as I leave this room, and God help me if I speak of it again.  It comes as a surprise his pretty face can look so menacing so easily.

"Should I ask why she doesn't?"

"I don't know . . ." he says, and I'm not quite sure whose question he answered.

I have another sip of wine.  For a moment, I wonder if I want my memories back, if memory can be as crushing a weight as the one that lays upon him.  I set the glass down and let my fingers hover over the final three cards. "The next row isn't the future per se, Valerius.  It indicates a possible outcome, a likely one, if actions in the present aren't changed."

He waves a hand dismissively. "Turn them without me looking, magician.  Tell me then if I _ want _ to know."

"Very well."  I flip the cards over, moving from left to right.  The Five of Pentacles, Justice, and the King of Pentacles, all reversed.  Their voices are an incoherent cacophony, competing for attention, begging for actions to be taken that with flip them over to their upright position.  The King and the Hierophant on the diagonal with the Knight Pentacles suggests the natural progression of his path should have been on to disciplined leadership, but something had led to a deviation from it, trapping him within the current disorder.  "Valerius?" When in this conversation did I begin using his name rather than his title? I pause for a moment, but he doesn't reply either to encourage or discourage me. "You may not want to look, but you should."

"It will all end badly. Is it that? I  _ know _ that, Dema, I know it for a time, but with the things as they are, there's no way for me to get out except for a noose."

That attitude is becoming a distressingly common theme in conversations.  Fatalism must be in fashion this season.

"I don't like the idea of being a fortune teller.  It suggests that the future is somehow fixed and can be told.  Rather than the future being sets of more or less probable outcomes that can be inferred."  I take a drink if my wine, giving him an opportunity to respond that he doesn't take. I'm not sure he's listening.  "There's still free will. You're not fated to any particular outcome. Even when it feels like it. And believe me, Valerius, I understand that feeling."

"Part of my position is to plan, and to plan for the most possible way events will unfold.  Your cards just taunt me with things I already know. Do you wish me to explain what they're saying?  Because I understand them very well." A shaking hand reaches for his glass.

I shrug and refill my own wine glass.  "It's up to you whether you wish to discuss them.  I'm simply reminding you that the most likely possibility is not the  _ only _ possibility.  It needn't end like you think."

He laughs, and it feels like the first time that he’s done so in ages.  And, it’s no laughter of mirth, just bitterness and despair. "I've been digging this grave since so many years, and here you are just telling me I don't have to lie in it?  You don't tend to daydrink, do you?"

"You're wrong - on both counts.  And I never said pulling yourself out it would be simple.  I only said that you could."

"Maybe I'll come one day and tell you my dreams, but you're not here about that. You're here about a man you don't wish to find."

"Officially, at least.  But you're wrong again. I've only told the Countess that I'll help her uncover what actually happened three years ago."

"And you see relevance in my . . ."  His hand flutters gracefully through the air, ". . . bad habits?"

"I see relevance -" I pause and take another drink of wine.  "In what you know. You were -” I know I’m about to step out on a bit of a limb here, but I suspect strongly that the reversed knight represents Lucio.  And if nothing else, Valerius's official duties would have placed him in close contact with the Count. "Closely involved with the players. How that involvement affects you now or in the future?  You're right that it may not be my actual business at the moment. But what you know of the past - I need more than hints from the cards."

"I can tell you that a lot of parties wished for Lucio's death, and that included our dear countess herself, a fact she has so gracefully forgotten.  I can also tell you that I  _ did not _ do it, even if that belonged to my dreams - well, those during the day.  He was a forceful, lustful man, and prone to treading on anyone that wasn't clearly his superior."

It was strange to see him like this.  Agitated.  _ Emotional _ .  And deeply, deeply conflicted about the entirety of it.  Whatever had been between them, it had left deep scars. I believe him when he says he wasn't the responsible party.  The denial is too uncontrolled to be anything other than sincere. "Who gained from his death?"

"Who didn't?  The only ones who did not are the other three.  They will be under scrutiny just as me, and-" He shakes his head. "You've seen the state of the city.  Volta at least understands that things are amiss. The others . . . not so much."

"Really?  Volta has the greatest insight?”  I'm not shocked that Vlastomil and Vulgora are too caught up in themselves to notice anything.  Volta seemed kinder, but not particularly aware of anything beyond the next morsel to go in her mouth.  And Valerius has said three, not four. "What about the fourth? Valdemar?"

"Valdemar.  Ha. They're above and beyond politics and human vanities.  I don't dare to judge what they do, and I am sure anyone who tries will end up a victim of their  _ science _ .  And dear Volta . . . I’ve known her for quite a while, and she has always been well-meaning.  That’s still in her somewhere, below the fear and voracious appetite." When he speaks of Volta, there’s some resemblance of affection in his voice, a little glimpse of someone who could be good man or at least, a decent one.

I set aside my once again empty glass with a sigh.  "And there's nothing else you know - nothing you remember - that might help me?”

"I think, Magician, you may have to ask the right questions for the answers you are seeking."  He nods briefly as he repacks his emotions and corks the bottle tightly. He's had enough of me, at least for now.

I begin to pick up my cards and consider which questions would be the right ones, even if now wasn't the time.  "Thank you for the conversation, Consul. It was hardly boring."

"Do hesitate to consult me again."  His features return to the cool, slightly disgusted mask, a bad case of resting bitch face to keep anyone from getting too close, but there still is the hint of a smile in the eyes, if only there.  "Even though I might make time for you in my schedule. Be it just not to drink alone. But for now, a good evening to you."

* * *

 

When I return to my room, Faust is waiting for me.  She’s curled around an elegant box on the table and lifts her head when the door opens and flicks her tongue at me.  “And where have you been?”

_ “Tree!” _

Not much of an answer.  I scratch underneath her chin and pick up the box.  It’s made of carved wood, intricately fitted together and finely finished.  A note rests just inside the lid.

_ Dema, please accept my apologies for the behavior of my court and this small token of my regard.  I think it will complement your eyes. - N. _

Underneath the note, a sapphire pendant on a silver chain rests on a folded piece of silk.  It’s gorgeous. Far, far more than a small token, at least in any world other than the Countess’s rarefied one.  The jewel almost vibrates as my fingers touch it. Asra. This . . . more than anything I found in the shop, feels of Asra.  Why?

I don’t have time for that.  It’s late. The halls are empty and the garden should be abandoned by now.  A good time to try again to see if I can contact Asra through the fountain. I take the sapphire from the box and tuck it into my pocket, nestled beside my tarot deck.  Setting the casket back down on the table I extend my arm to Faust. She coils around it and works her way up to my shoulders. 

_ “Asra?” _

“Let’s try at least.”  

 

I sit on the edge of the fountain and listen to splashing water.  Will this work? Is the energy I felt on the sapphire actually Asra's, or just some trick of my very lonely imagination?  Faust slithers up the side of the fountain and around my arm. I run a finger over her cool head then take the sapphire from my pocket, holding it out over the water.  “Here goes nothing.” With a couple of deep breaths to clear my mind of any thoughts other than Asra, I let go of the chain allowing the jewel to drop into the fountain with a hollow plop.  The water ripples, then as it stills, Asra's face appears and slowly comes into focus. He pushes his hair back from his face, looks surprised for a moment, and then smiles broadly.

“Dema, you did it!  You figured this spell out!”  

“I, I needed to talk to you.  Asra, so much has happened.” I gnaw on my bottom lip and glance away from the fountain before looking back.  “I think I might be in over my head.”

Asra's brows furrow with worry.  “Hold out your hand. I want to try something.”

I extend my hand over the fountain.  The water around Asra quivers, then coalesces rising from the surface and forming into a hand.  The fingers wrap around mine and tug gently. I grip them and pull back. Slowly more of the water rises from the fountain, shaping itself into a shimmering likeness of Asra.  He looks around and then flicks his wrist sharply. The water falls away, leaving him standing in the fountain, water up to his knees, but very much present.

“I didn't know if that would work.  This fountain must connect to some powerful sort of magic, if it can act as this sort of portal.”  He steps out of the fountain and looks down at me, a warm smile playing on his lips. “Dema, you look . . . ethereal.  You’re practically glowing in that dress.”

“Asra.”  I don’t feel glowing or ethereal.  I feel like I’m sinking, being pulled down into a place that I don’t want to be in again.  I pull his hand to my face, and he runs his thumb along my jaw before and sitting down beside me.  His hands close gently around my shoulders, and he pulls me closer to him, letting me press my face to his chest and rubbing his hands over my back.  He’s warm, and solid, and real, and the best of the many unsatisfactory connections I have to reality. There’s a burning behind my eyes, the frustrated, anxious tears that I’ve been refusing to give in to for the past days.  My breath catches in my throat and when I can finally draw another, it’s ragged and stammering in my chest. Asra’s arms tighten around me, and I feel his lips pressing against the top of my head.

“Dema, it can't be all that bad.”

“I - I'm confused.”  I snuggle closer to him.  “So much has happened, and I think I might be going mad - again.  Asra, the cards are literally talking to me. Not intuitions, not senses, actually speaking.  And not just your deck - mine too.”

“You’re not mad.”  He pushes me back away, just enough enough to look in my eyes.  “I promise.” His hands move to mine, turning them over, thumbs running over the insides of my wrists and my palms.

“Can they speak?”  I rephrase the same questions Valerius answered earlier.  The one that I couldn’t quite answer either to my own, or to the Consul’s satisfaction.  “Are they just representations of powers, archons, whatever? Or actual . . . persons?”

“It’s . . . complex.  Some are more personal than others.  But -” He pulls me back against him, hands soothing over my back.  “You’re not just hearing voices, though. You’re more connected, attuned to the arcana than most are.  That’s all.”

“I’m not sure I want to be.”  

Asra’s only response is to tuck my head under his chin and hold me tighter to him.  He’s quiet for the space of one, two, three breaths, then lifts his head. I take a deep breath and speak again.  “That’s not everything.” Without extracting myself from his embrace, I run through the events of the past few days.  Nadia's game with the cards, her plans to execute Julian, how I didn't think he had murdered the Count, and Portia was his sister.  And why, why did it honestly feel like I knew him? I straighten up as I talk, pulling away from Asra. “Did I know him, Asra? You did.  I found, in the library, um . . .”

Asra looks away from me, gaze moving to the willow tree.  He sighs and speaks carefully, holding my hand tightly in his.  “You knew him. And, yes, I knew him.”

“Who was he to you?”

Asra closes his eyes; his thumb runs over my knuckles.  “A friend once, then something more. Ultimately, more than I could risk - not at that time.  Dema, please, be careful around him. He's not necessarily sometime you should trust.”

“I'm not sure who exactly I should trust.”

Asra's expression saddens, and his cheeks redden slightly.  He looks down to where are hands are still entwined. “I'm sorry that I haven't been that person for you.  I'd never hurt you on purpose, I promise.”

“Asra.”  I pull my fingers free and then cup his face in my hands, lifting his chin just enough for his eyes to meet mine.  Maybe, just maybe, he’ll finally answer my questions. “Who am I to you?”

His eyebrows lift ever so slightly, and he closes his eyes.  He turns his head and presses his lips to my palm, lips lingering against my skin.  “Dema, sometimes I fear I'll be crushed under the weight of everything you are to me.  You aren't my student . . . not really. I've taught you nothing that didn't already know.”  He pauses, then reaches out reversing our poses and placing a hand on either side of my face.  “Sometimes I'm scared that you'll see everything you are to me and it will be too much for either of us.  So I have to escape, to hide. But -” He leans forward, touching his forehead to mine. “I want you to know.  I don't want to have to continue keeping secrets from you. I want you to remember.”

“Remember what?  Asra?”

His fingertips hover over my collarbone, then just a little lower, not quite touching the left side of my chest.  “You're my very heart, Dema.”

I close my eyes, his face as I first saw it - shocked, terrified, relieved - folds the space behind it.  Then I feel myself falling through smoke, glimpses of memories, Asra in each. Younger, wilder - lacking his studied detachment.  And each memory is mine. I'm running through Vesuvia with him, dancing to the music of what must be the masquerade, kissing on street corners while ignoring the pouring rain.  We were . . . I crash back into my body, ears ringing and temples pounding. Clutching my head, I fall forward with a pitiful moan, back against Asra's chest.

I feel cool fingers running through my hair.  “I'm so sorry, my love. This, all this, is never what I wanted.  Never what I intended.” Asra's voice is sad. “But here we are. And I'm so sorry to have made you remember, and so sorry to make you forget.”  His lips press against my forehead and the world around me disappears.

 

Faust is curled around me when I wake by the fountain.  I must have fallen asleep while trying to contact Asra. The last thing I remember is dropping the sapphire pendant into the water and watching the ripples spread access the fountain.  I suppose it didn't work. A scarf I recognize as one of Asra’s is folded under my head. Odd? Must have brought that back from the shop. Yawning, I stand and lean over the water to fish out the pendant.  I can try again tomorrow night. Or maybe, Asra will be home by then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew... made it through the prologue. Wasn't that fun?
> 
> If you enjoyed Valerius in this chapter, go check out [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16868590/chapters/42627746) by medical_mechanica and Verdin, who is responsible for our good Consul's dialogue in this chapter. Many, many thanks!
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to here from you either here or on Tumblr [@aria-i-adagio](https://aria-i-adagio.tumblr.com/).


	9. This Body Breathes From Inertia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: minor character death, acute grief, self harm, excoriation, dissociation, alcohol 
> 
> There’s a non detailed summary in the end notes, if you want to skip the chapter.
> 
> Title from [Bi-2 and Agata Kristi, ‘Bce Kak On Skazal’](https://youtu.be/m72GWoBgw9o%22).

_ _

 

_ Five years ago. _

 

“You did everything you could.  Literally, I, uh, couldn’t have done anything else.”  The doctor was young, only a few years older than me, and skinny as a bean pole and with the slightest hint of an accent when he spoke the trade language.  Shouldn’t say that. Everyone had an accent when they spoke the trade language. That was the point of a trade language. He had a faint non-Vesuvian accent when he spoke the trade language.  

He wasn’t wearing one of those ghastly masks.  Thank God for that - if God still deserved thanks.  I was more in a mood to lay into God with every invective I knew.  Anna, my aunt, hated those masks. Claimed they wouldn’t do much more than just covering your mouth with a kerchief anyway.  In the three weeks since her eyes started turning red, I had burnt every kerchief in the house and then given up entirely, assuming that I’d sicken soon enough anyway.

“I’m sorry.”  He took a tiny vial out of his bag and offered it to me.  “Laudanum. It might help if she’s in pain, but only give her a drop or two at a time.  Anymore will -”

“I have opium.”  I cut him off. I’m a fucking apothecary; of course, I have opium.  And the implication behind carefully stating just how much would be too much, well, I understood that as well.  “And if I decide that she’d want me to end it, I can think of at least five other admixtures I have the ingredients for that would do the job as well.  Keep that for someone else. It won’t be very long now anyway.”

He put the bottle back in his bag, talking quietly as he does so, perhaps just to fill the silence as it’s all common knowledge.  “The carts come round in the morning. I know, if seems awful, but the mass graves, they’re the best way to minimize the contagion being passed on.  You should burn all that bedding too.”

I nodded absently and continued stroking the back of my aunt’s hand, counting the seconds between each increasingly shallow breath.  It didn’t  _ seem _ awful; it was awful.  But he was right. Even if the quarantines and the dead wagons - carting off the deceased like so many cattle - have down nothing thus far, they were the best of multiple bad options.

“Hey, do you, um, have anyone else?  Someone to help you, maybe.”

The doctor touched my shoulder, bringing me back from my grim musings.  I looked up at him, paying attention to his face for the first time. Gray eyes, nearly lost in dark circles - he didn’t look like he’d slept more than I had in the past few weeks.  Friends? I felt too empty to even think of myself as the type of thing that could have anything, much less friends. There was Artemis, but she had been trying carefully to avoid the plague victims as much as she could.  It was too easy for her to spread the contagion to already vulnerable women and infants. But I wanted Asra with me most. “He’s traveling right now.” I twisted the ring Asra gave me before he left - two trips ago, maybe, they blur together, he often seems like he’s gone more than he’s here - around on my finger.  He was supposed to return soon and bring with him some of the rarer herbs and medicines that we didn’t stock, that we hoped would do some more good for the plague than what we had tried some far. But, he was too late. As usual. Always running late.

The doctor frowned, rummaged around in the pockets of his coat, and then handed me an unlabeled glass flask.  “For you. Not officially approved, but it takes the edge off.”

I gave him a skeptical look.  This was not the sort of thing I expected from someone in ‘professional’ medicine.  But, what the hell? I uncorked the bottle and took a swig, managing not to make a face as the liquor burnt its way down into my stomach.  My second drink was slower. “It’s not bad. I like a drink to bite me back, at least a little bit. What is it?”

“ _ Slivovitsa _ \- plum brandy.  My grannies swear by it for basically everything.  Not that this is as good as theirs.”

I held the flask back out to him, but he shook his head.

“Keep it.”

Another cough racked Anna’s frail body - weaker than the last.  Any strength she had left to try and clear her lungs was fading fast.  I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and rearranged the pillows behind her so that she’s a bit more upright.  Once she’s settled, I held a shallow cup of water to her cracked lips and blotted away what she doesn’t drink - most of it, probably all of it - with a square of cloth.  Another for the burning pile.

When I look up, the doctor was still watching me with those exhausted gray eyes.  There weren’t a lot of sad eyes left in Vesuvia; we’d all become too acclimated to pain and death to show any response on our jaded faces.  But his eyes were curiously, somehow, still melancholic.

“You can go.  I know you can’t do anything.”

“I, uh, I’ll stop by tomorrow.  To check on you.”

“You don’t have to.  We all know how this ends.”

“I will anyway.”

 

* * *

 

A few hours past midnight, her eyes blinked open for a moment, then with a final rattling cough, she died.  I convinced myself that she had looked at me, and faintly, ever so very very faintly, had squeezed my hand. Maybe it really happened, maybe it was a figment of my sleep deprived imagination.  But believing it made me feel a little better.

I arranged her limbs into something that vaguely looked peaceful, surrounded her with flowers we had dried the past summer - chamomile, lavender, and rose - and knotted the bedsheets into a shroud.   Finally, I gathered her up in my arms, using magic to steady my self on the steps, but taking her diminished weight on myself, sure that I needed to do this last task for her on my own. Some final, last acknowledgement who she was to me, since I couldn’t bury her properly.  

When dawn came with the wagons to collect the dead, I pacing in front of the shop,  shawl pulled tight against the cool air that passes for winter in the Vesuvian climate, and counting the cobblestones in the street to try to keep the roaring in my head at bay.  As the wagon pulled away, the roaring terminated, and I slumped back against the door of the shop, knees no longer able to bear my weight and curled into a small, shaking bundle of sobs.     

I pulled myself up after a passer by poked me with a stick to see if I was still alive, and staggered back into the shop, into my  _ home _ .  Forced myself to drink a cup of water.  I should sleep. I knew that I should sleep.  But I also knew I would dream, and I could predict what those dreams would be.  I didn’t want them.

I started taking apart the upstairs bedroom instead.  By late afternoon, I’d tossed all the bedding from the window to the yard below and dragged it far enough away that I wouldn’t set the shop on fire by mistake.  I summoned a flame, more than I really needed for the pile to catch light, but I was sad and angry, and it felt good to destroy something. 

I watched it burn, then started shooing my chickens - so happily oblivious - into their coop for the night.  As I latched the gate shut on their enclosure, a voice called to me from the gate. Auburn hair was just visible above the high fence - the doctor from last night?  He had said he’s come by, but I hadn’t believed him. Certainly that had just been a nice thing to say at the time. I pulled the gate and looked him up and down. No uniform, and there’s a wrinkled dog tagging along at his heels.

“Hey, I said I’d check on you.”

“She’s dead.  I’m alive. Thanks.”  My response bordered on rude - no, actually, quite rude - but I didn’t really care, even if he was trying to be kind.  I didn’t have the emotional reserves to respond in the way I knew that I should.

My answer didn't seem to put him off.  “Can I, could I step in for minute? I wanted to talk to you.”

“Is your dog going to attack my chickens?”

He laughed, and it was an odd sound, almost shocking, maybe even scandalous, to hear laughter.  “Nah, I can promise that she’s too damn lazy to chase a chicken.”

I silently held the gate open for him, and he walked into the back yard.  The fire behind me has turned into a roaring blaze. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name last night.”

“Oh, um, yeah, Julian Devorak.  You took me seriously about burning the bedding.”

“Yep.”  I folded myself into an ironwork chair.  Iron shouldn’t, couldn’t hold any of the plague.  In folktales iron would counteract the supernatural, quell it, and the longer this pestilence ravaged the city, the more rational accepting a fey, irrational origin for the suffering seemed.  Right? Iron and fire. Maybe those were the solutions. “Cleaned out pretty much everything in that room.” 

“You did that all on your own?”  He sat down in the chair opposite of mine.  “I thought a neighbor or someone would -”

I gestured absently at the chair he’s sitting in and floated it a few inches off the ground.  Ah, yes, this isn't a folktale and iron doesn't counteract the supernatural. Or at least iron doesn't counteract my magic.  So much for the supernatural as a diagnosis and iron for a prescription. Back to square one. Death, lots of death, from an unexplained and untreatable illness.  

As the chair rose, the doctor grabbed the arms and yelped in surprise.  His dog gave me a disapproving look that I did deserve, and I gently let the chair settle back onto the ground.

“I’m not exactly helpless.”

“I see that.”  His face has gone paler, if that was even possible, at the display of magic.  “But still. I’m sorry that you, uh, had to do that alone.”

“The  _ slivovitsa _ helped.”  I pulled the bottle out of my shirt pocket and drank the last mouthful.  I’d also been nursing a bottle of whiskey all day, half expecting Anna to step into the room and inform me that day drinking is not a healthy coping strategy.  But she hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. Staring at the fire, I shrugged out of the bulky shirt I had on a sleeveless blouse and tossed it in with everything else.  Despite the fire, the night air chilled me quickly and I wrapped my arms tight around my torso. I should probably burn all the clothing I’d worn while cleaning, but I supposed that can wait until the doctor - until Julian - leaves.  “Thanks for that.”

“When is your husband getting back?”

“Husband?”  It was staccato and bitter, but I couldn’t help but laugh as I imagined Asra's face at having that vocabulary applied to him.  His eyebrows would pull together for a moment, then the right one would lift in concert with the corner of his mouth curling in something halfway between amusement and disgust.

“Sorry, I assumed with the ring and you, uh, you said he.”

The alcohol in my blood said he was cute when him stammered.  Or at least, I blamed the alcohol. 

“You're observant.”  I picked up a stick and poked at the embers.  “He is at best a term of convenience when talking about Asra.  And I don't know what word you'd use for what we are.” Lovers?  Non exclusive lovers - what’s the word for that? Two people who keep coming home to each other, despite whoever and whatever else we got involved with in the interim.  I curled my free hand against my mouth, lips pressed against the ring I'm wearing. “He should be home in the next week. Should be. Doesn't mean he will be. He gets distracted sometimes.”  Distracted is also not quite the right word for Asra, but again, I’m not sure what word you would use to explain his convoluted, occasionally non linear sense of time.

“They've closed down the port.  I hear they're planning to seal off the city gates soon.”

“Oh, that won't stop him."  I sometimes suspected that Asra could pass through walls and step between mirrors if he so desired.  "Why are you here, Dr. Devorak? I can't imagine you take this much interest in the family of every person who dies.”

“I, well, I meant it when I said I thought you did everything you could, and I wanted to know more about what you used.”

“She's still dead.”  One of the four universals, along with aloneness, lack of meaning, and the terrifying responsibility of free will.  But Death comes for us all, no matter the virtuous or unvirtuous choices we've made. It bleaches them of meaning and abandons us in finitude.  Intellectualizing. A coping mechanism. Not always a good one. But it's something.

“Yes, but . . .”

Anna had survived for three weeks after her eyes turned red, instead of the handful of days most plague victims counted.  After watching her become slowly feebler and feebler before slipping into that last long coma, I wasn’t convinced that was a good.  But still, I sighed and began to rattle off what Anna and I tried - first for our neighbors and customers who had come developed then sickness, then for her.  “Boneset and willow bark for the fever and aches. Start the tincture at the new moon so that it will draw out the active parts of the plant. Pleurisy root and horehound for the cough and the lung congestion as a oxymel.  A salve of ginger, arnica, and comfrey for swollen joints. Those should be extracted into an oil while the moon is waning. I use spellwork to complement the herbs, some of which I can attach to charms, some of which I have to be present to work.  All of that only treats the symptoms. We tried echinacea and elderberry to build immune systems, but it didn't work. I found a reference to an herb from the west that supposedly cured a plague there, but -” I shrugged, it was a folktale in an old book, not a solid lead.  But library research was one of the things I knew I was good at, and lately I wasn’t feeling very confident in my ability to do anything. “Asra is supposed to bring some back with him. But none of it really seems to do any good. Is there anything else you want to know?”

“I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to upset you.”

“I'm not upset.  I'm exhausted.” The dog pushed her head into my hands, and I rubbed her velvety ears absently before pressing my face against her warm body, trying to fight back the tears that I had kept myself from crying for the entire day.  “And the only family that gave a damn about me just died, so excuse me if my conversation skills are lacking.” I hadn’t heard from the rest of my family in years . . . not since . . . well, perhaps I couldn’t blame them. My mother had - apparently - given up after the third letter I didn’t respond to.  My father had sent a book of sacred texts, littered with notes on scrap paper after I had first come to live with Anna, but nothing since.

He was silent for a minute, then I heard the chair shift as he stood up.  His hand was warm - more comforting than I could admit I wanted - when he placed it on my shoulder.  “Listen. Just, uh, think about this. When you're ready, I could use an assistant, preferably someone who knows something, because nothing I've tried works either.”

I angrily wiped tears away from my eyes.  “What would be the point? No one recovers from this.”

“I want to be the kind of person who at least tries.”  He squeezed my shoulder and without thinking, my head fell against his arm.  He moved again, kneeling behind the chair until he could wrap both of his arms around me in an awkward, surprisingly welcome hug.  “Just think about it, okay?”

* * *

 

I scrubbed the shop: attic to basement.  Hot water and strong vinegar until the skin started to peel from my fingers.  Scalded every piece of fabric I could in the washtub. Laid the cushions and blankets out for the sun to purify then dragged them all back in.  Paced around the shop with burning sage and hyssop. I filled the tub with water as hot as I could stand and crawled in, worrying at my hands and arms with a pumice stone until the abrasions began to bleed, like the day bleeding into the night then back again.  And when I couldn't lift another finger, I fell out on the cushions in the backroom and waited, staring at the ceiling for hours until I thought of something I might forgotten to clean, to burn, to purify. And then I did it. First time, second time, third, fifth, eighth - it didn't matter, so long as it was something to keep the silence beginning to scream again, echoing, roaring like the sea trapped within a conch shell.

Lies.  It was screaming the whole time.

I tried not to close my eyes.

If I closed them, I'd lose grasp on this reality.

This reality because I'm not sure which reality is more real right now.

If I closed my eyes the fey aching tracings are my arms become more real.

Past tense confused with present tense with future tense.  No. Past perfect.

Fait accompli.

It won't change anything if I drag a knife along those lines.  They're already there.

Except I wouldn't be lying anymore.  Pretending to be something I'm not. Faking being healed and whole instead of the accumulation of broken parts, the exquisite corpse that I actually am.  No more lies. Just the nightmare they hide.

But if I kept my eyes open - keep looking for new details in the tapestry on the wall, the brocade of the cushion in clutching, keep looking at anything - those lines are a trick of my mind.  Didn’t happen again. A misfiring, misrepresentation of something in my brain. Somatization. 

There are more words, better words, for this reality.  Maybe that makes it the more real one? If I don't lose words, I don't lose this reality.  Derealization. Dissociation. Depersonalization. Mad. Lunatic. Liar.

No, those aren't good words.  Real. But not good.

Real is what I touch.  Fabric. Wool. Linen. Silk.  Cotton. Jacquard. Twill. Herringbone.  Velvet. Flannelette. Knit.

I could keep the other reality at bay.  Just barely. It's roaring, pacing at the limits.  A lion in a too small cage. 

Cross stitch.  Silk stitch. French knots.  Applique. Blanket stitch. Crow's foot tack.

But if I don't close my eyes it won't take over.  Not yet. Not already.

Just a little while longer.  Just keep my eyes open a little bit longer.

 

* * *

 

I think it was the third day that Asra came home.  I was buried under a pile of blankets in the backroom, dozing.  I half roused when his dropped his bundles on the floor, and then his hands were on my shoulders, pulling me upright, pushing hair back out of my face.  “Dema?” 

“She's dead.  She's dead, and you weren't here, and I've been alone, and, and . . .”

“She?  Anna?” Asra gathered me into his arms.  “Oh.” He rocked back and forth, pressing his face into the top of my head.  Faust, cool and smooth, wrapped around my shoulders. Asra shook with the sobs that I had cried out days before day.

At some point, curled together in a little pile of misery, we fell asleep.

He was checking my arms when I wake up.  I couldn't blame him, and his hands on mine felt more soothing than anything else.  I smiled at him weakly. "No cuts. No burns." It wasn't exactly something I should feel accomplished about.  The scrapes from pumice stones were bad enough. But I did.

"Oh, dear heart.  I'm so sorry." He kissed the this of my fingers and the inside of my wrist.  "Can I -?" I closed my eyes and nodded. He methodically ran his thumb over each of the scrapes.  The places he touched grew warm for a moment as the skin knitted itself back together. He settled himself against me, head resting on my breast, and I sighed and ran my hands through his soft hair.

"I made it.  Kind of, at least."

"You did.  I can hear your heart beating."

"I finally just laid in here and went through all the different fibers and weaves and stitches."

"Heh."  He pressed his lips softly against my collarbone.  "I'm glad there are so damn many fabrics in here then.  You’re stronger than you think you are."

“I’m just a stubborn bitch.”

“Whatever works, my love.”  His fingertips traced along my arm.  I buried my hand in his hair and kneaded my fingers along his scalp.

“I’m sorry, Asra.  I know she was important to you too.” 

“What are you sorry for?”

“Losing it like that.”

He was silent for a moment, fingertips still tracing small circles on my upper arm.  “I understand. I should have been here.”

“No, no,  You didn’t even know she was sick.  It was just hard.”

“I know.”  He kissed my collarbone again.  “You’re shaking. When did you last eat?”

My response was more of a noncommittal noise than an answer.  Asra sat back up next to me and runs a hand over my forehead. "Dema, is there any food in the house?"

"I -"  I tried to remember when I ate.  I couldn't. I wasn’t even exactly sure how many days had passed.  I thought I had kept the chickens fed. I hoped I had kept the chickens fed and watered.  I really didn’t know. Shit . . . they might have started eating each other. They’d do that.  "I'm sorry, I don't know, I -"

"Sh, it's okay, love.  It's fine." He leaned down and pressed his forehead to mine.  "I'm going to go upstairs, make some tea, and see if I can find something for you to nibble on, then I'll go to the market and bring back something good."  Another kiss. "It's alright."

"Asra -" I grabbed at his hands, panicking, afraid that if he left the room again, he wouldn’t be back, wouldn’t have actually been here at all.  "Don't -"

“Come upstairs with me.”  
I sat up and curled around my knees, shaking my head.  I wasn’t ready to go back up there, to the stripped and barren space that had been home.  Either cleaning it hadn’t removed the ghosts, or it had sent them away, and I wasn’t sure which idea was more frightening.  I didn't want to know which it is. Until I know, until I go back up there, the state is both and neither, and perhaps the space can hold the ghosts of better memories while being purged of those last few weeks.

“Faust.”  Asra said his familiar’s name softly and the snake slid into my lap, a welcome weight.  I ran my fingers over her very real head. Faust was here, so Asra was here. Simple math.  “Faust will stay with you. I’ll be right back, promise.”

I nodded and lifted Faust from my lap, draping her around my neck.  I wish she could talk to be like she does Asra, but just having her with me helps.  “I’m, I’m going to go wash my face.”

“That’s good.” Asra grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet, looking concerned at my unsteady gait.  I kept a hand on the wall and managed a wan smile for him. The washroom is on the ground floor, I least won’t have to manage any stairs.  Asra nodded. “Alright, I’ll be right back down.”

I splashed some cool water on my face and run my fingers through my hair a few times before stumbling back into my room with its nest of cushions.  Asra isn’t long with a steaming teapot in one hand and a mug in the other. He set the teapot near me on the floor and pressed the mug into my hands.  Chamomile. With quite a lot of honey in.

“There isn’t any food left in the house.”  

“Sorry, I might have thrown it all out.  Along with everything else.”

He fumbled through his traveling bag for some coin.  “It’s alright, but I’ve got to go down to the market and get something.”  My fingers tightened around the warm mug. “Faust will stay with you. I won’t be gone but for a few minutes.”

I closed my eyes and nodded trying to focus on the warmth of the tea in my hands and the cool weight of Faust draped around my shoulder, but I couldn’t quite slow my breathing.  His hand is on the latch when I open them. “Asra.” He stopped and turning before stepping back over to me and leaning down to press his lips to my forehead. 

“I will never not come back to you, dear heart.  I promise.” His fingertips traced over my jaw. “And I won’t be long.  Just a few minutes.

 

* * *

 

I reopened the shop a week after Asra returned.  One person knocked on the door to see if I had any herbs left, and then slowly, more people wandered in - more than I thought would have braved the specter of a plague death.  But then, there wasn’t much of anywhere left in the city that wasn’t sepulchral by that point. 

One visitor was the doctor.

Asra was out of the shop, trying to track down honey.  I had run out, and while most of the herbs for coughs were still useful without it, they really did do best compounded in a oxymel.  Having Asra back was a help. He kept me from tearing up my hands in the hope of cleaning them, generally by holding me tight against him until the impulse had passed.  And he at least got me to sleep through part of the night in addition to naps throughout the day. 

The doctor waited patiently, studying the intricate diagrams with which Anna had decorated the shop, while I explained a charm to a customer.  Customer might not have been the right term. Anna and I had stopped charging for anything related to treating the plague weeks before. I wrapped the enchanted trinket -  it didn’t especially matter what I embedded the spell in - the cheapest charm from the market would do as well as the most valuable jewelry - up in paper, and the customer left, doorbell ringing behind them.

“Can I get you something Dr - uhm.”  My voice trailed off as I blanked entirely on his name.

He winked at me and smiled.  “Just call me Julian. No, I just wanted to check on you.  And thank you.”

“For what?”  I smoothed the remaining sigils from the sand tray I used for spellwork and lined the styluses up in the slots above it.  

“The, um, suggestions you gave me.  They’ve been helping. Really, more than anything else I was trying.”

“But not a cure,” I said softly as I stepped out from behind the counter.

“No.  But it’s more than what I had to work with before.”  He looked away from me, back to one of the geometric designs on the wall.  “Have you thought about it?”

He began to trace the pattern on the diagram; I pushed his hand away from it.  The lines were part of an array for recombining the energies of various substances.  Anna really shouldn’t have put them on the wall where a curious person could unknowing activate them, even if it was a rather attractive diagram.  

“About what?”  

“Working with me.  I meant it when I said I could use your help.”

“I . . . actually, I had forgotten.”

“It’s okay.  You’ve been -”

“- but I will.  Think about it, I mean.”

He smiled again.  Lopsided, the left corner of his mouth picking up a moment before the right.  “I’m glad to hear that. Here.” He extended his hand, offering me a folded square of paper.  “That’s the address of the clinic I run. South side.”

I tucked the paper into my pocket.  “I’ll think about it. Really.”

“I’ll just hope I see you again then.  Soon, maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary:
> 
> Five years before the current time. While Asra is gone, Dema’s aunt, Anna, dies from the plague. Julian attempts to help night before Anna dies. Promises to check on Dema the next day. He follows through. He can Dema discuss what she and her aunt had tried, commenting that the herbal medicine they had tried did more than anything that he had been trying. Asks Dema to work with him, when she’s ready.
> 
> Mentally Dema decompensates badly, dissociating and compulsively cleaning. Asra returns a few days later. His return helps stabilize Dema, and a week or so later, Dema is able to reopen the shop once friends and neighbors start coming by for herbal remedies and charms. Julian comes by, reminds Dema of his offer, which she considers.


	10. Bad Luck Heels

“What have I got to show for this life,

If I don't make this thing right.

What have I done with this life?

I won't make the same mistake twice.

I won't let you out of my sight.

I'm gonna set this thing right.

You will be mine again tonight.”

~ Devotchka, ‘Bad Luck Heels’

 

_ Now. _

Nadia isn’t present at breakfast, which is just as well as far as I'm concerned.  Something is bothering me about last night. I remember trying to reach Asra again via the fountain, but I don’t remember actually making contact with him.  And yet, something about that doesn’t feel quite . . . accurate. There’s something absent, and something present as well. One of Asra's scarves. I suppose that I could have brought it back from the shop with me, but I think that it might be the one he was wearing when he left.  I’d prefer to attempt to process all of this without the presence of a Countess who I still wasn’t sure about trusting. Also, Faust is currently curled up in my bag, and I’m sure I don't want to try explaining her presence should she decide to make herself known.

I take my time with breakfast, polishing off a pot of tea and several different variations on the theme of flaky dough pastry - all wonderfully delicious.  A walk through the garden seems like a pleasant enough diversion until I decided what to do with the rest of my day.

 

Even though I take a different path through the maze, the turns bring me back to the fountain and the willow tree.  The tree that has my name carved in it. Asra still hasn’t explained it. Faust pokes her head out of my bag.  _ “Asra?” _

“Not unless you know something I don’t.”

She tilts her head to the side - pointedly not answering my question if I do say so myself - then slithers out of my bag.  She flicks her tail at me and curls her way up into the branches. “That’s not helpful.”

With a huff, I lean against the tree and trace my finger over the carving.  I haven’t really looked at it in daylight. Even with the tree’s attempts to heal over, the cut marks remain jagged, almost violent in their energy, and still vibrating with the peculiar signature of Asra’s magic.  Not that it helped. The sapphire pendant that I still had around my neck carries the same feeling, and it hadn’t done me a bit of good last night. I trace my finger over the letters. They’re more painful than before, a burning icy cold.  My chest seizes suddenly, like a hand clenching around my heart, and I jerk forward with a gasp, hand breaking away from the tree.

Faust drops out of the tree and tongues at my cheek.   _ “Okay?” _

“What was that?”

_ “Memory.” _

“Whose?”

She bleps her tongue against my chin and crawls back into the tree.  “Still not helpful, Faust.” I catch my breath, staring at the letters in the tree - without touching them again.  What had happened for so much excess energy to remain in the tree? And do I know to know?

I do, but I’m not touching this tree again.

The maze continues become less kempt as I get further from the palace.  The hedges grow lower, and changing over from boxwoods to berry bushes. Finally the maze opens up into an orchard of carefully spaced peach and plum trees.  Just beyond, I can hear a familiar voice shouting.

“Damn bird!  Get out of here!  Get him, Pepi!”

I step around a tree.  Portia stands in the middle of a garden, swinging a hoe at a stunning white cockatoo that flapping around her head.  A small seal point cat, joins her, jumping at and missing the bird, who finally screeching and flaps away. 

“That’s right and stay away!”

“Protective much?”

“Oh!”  Portia lets the head of the hose drop to the ground and spins on her heel.  “Dema! Ah, here you are! Welcome to my little domain.” She gestures to a cheerily painted cottage behind her.  “I had the morning off on account of Milady’s headache. Getting a bit of my own work done.”

“Can I help you?”

“Sure, just watch out for the graspgourds.  They’re feisty today.”

“I’ll manage.”  I kick aside a tendril that is flailing toward my ankle and hop over a bed of calendula and borage and kneel down in the dirt beside the patch of beans.  Portia has them growing up a tidy row of frames formed from fallen branches. She’s mulched around the base of the plants, but as always, there are stubborn blades of yellow green grass and the deep green leaves morning glory poking their heads through the shredded wood.  Somethings can’t be kept down not matter how deep they’re buried. I grab one close to the base and pull it out, roots and all.

“You know what to pull, right?”  She pauses in her hoeing and looks over at me.  “Oh, you do. Good.” 

“I have a garden at home.”

“Ooo, nice.  What do you grow?”

“Mostly medicinal things.  Horehound, valerian, echinacea, betony, lavender, poppy . . . And I always have a few beans and tomato plants, and greens in the winter.  Asra is always bringing me back seeds that I might find useful or interesting, but I haven’t really had an opportunity to grow them all out yet.  If you’d like some to try sometime.”

“I’d love that.”  She swings her hoe down with greater force of a stubborn weed.  I wonder if she uses the weeds as a target for frustration she otherwise has to repress.  “The palace gardens are pretty, but they’re a bit . . . standardized for my tastes.”

Pepi saunters around the flower bed and pushes the side of her head against my leg.  I pause and let her sniff my fingers. She butts her head against my hand and lets me scratch her under the chin.

“Portia, what’s your opinion of Valerius?”

“The Consul?”  Another swing of the hoe, more forceful than is probably necessary - this is her outlet.  “Hasn’t gotten himself out from the bottom of a bottle of wine since I’ve been here. Well, I take that back.  He was sober at least part of the time when one of Milady’s sisters was here. Think he was a bit intimidated by them.”

Precisely what Valerius had predicted she’d say.  But the other is a new detail. “One of Nadia’s sisters visited?”

“Yeah, Nazali - Dr. Satrinava.  It was while Milady was still asleep.  I like them. They taught me to read.” Another beat of the hoe on the ground.  “Which is more than I can say for my dumbass brother. And they gave me a book of some of Milady’s favorite poetry to practice reading aloud to Milady while she was asleep.  I like to think that helped.”

“One of her sisters is a doctor?”

“Oh, you’d like them.  I hope they come. And early, so they can twist my brother’s ear and tell him off for being an idiot.”

“They come?”

Portia freezes, hoe held just above the ground.  “I - I may have written to Milady’s sisters. About the masquerade.  But . . . she doesn’t  _ know _ so please, please don’t tell her.  You won’t, will you?”

“Why wouldn’t she want her family here?”

Portia lets her hoe fall to the ground.  “She doesn’t seem to care much for her sisters.  I don’t know why. I mean, I’ve only met two of them, but they’re both amazing.  I mean, Nazali is awesome enough, and Nahara - whew!” I suspect that final sigh is from more than the midday heat.  She leans her hoe against the front porch rail of her cottage and dabs the sweat off her face. “Come on in for lunch, if you want.  Nothing fancy, but I have plenty.”

I stand up and brush the dirt from my knees.  “Thanks. Some not that fancy, actually sounds nice.”

 

The interior of Portia’s cottage is precisely what one would expect - cosy and homey.  The walls are a cheery yellow and decorated with curling flowers painted around the window and door frames.  There’s a sitting area with slightly worn, but overstuffed and comfortable looking chairs. Pepi hops up in one and kneads the knit blanket thrown over it before curling up into a little loaf of feline happiness.  Portia tosses me a damp towel to clean my hands off will and busies herself in the small kitchen. “I hope you like borscht. It’s the summer version, of course. Nice and cool.” She sets a bowl on the table in front of me.  It’s hardly what I would describe as not fancy. Bright pink, topped with a scoop of sour cream and a spring of borage blossoms.

“It almost looks too good to eat.”

“Well, don’t let that stop you!”  With a laugh she turns back to the kitchenette then returns with a plate with some sort of cheese pastry.  “And pita, my babushka’s recipe. Dig in.”

It’s delicious.  The borscht is earthy and slightly sweet.  I make a mental note to add beets to my garden rotation and to get the recipe from Portia to give to Asra.  And the pita! It isn’t the flatbread from the market, but some layered magic of filo dough, salty cheese, and eggy goodness.  “Portia, I will weed your garden anytime you want if you’ll feed me things like this.”

She smiles around a mouthful of the pita.  “Well, Pepi approves of you, so you’re welcome anytime.  Oh - I forgot, something to drink.” She gets up and returns a moment later with two earthenware mugs.  “Just water, I’m afraid.”

Given the rather impressive amount of wine that I consumed last night, water is a very, very good idea.  I take a sip. It’s lukewarm, and I work a quick spell to chill it. Portia notices the condensation forming and clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth.  “You’ll take sick, drinking cold water like that.”

“Really?”  Another sip.  Much better cold.

“What all my babushki told me.”  

I shrug.  I haven’t gotten sick from drinking cold water yet.  Another spoonful of the borscht. Why is it fine to eat that chilled, but not the water.  No matter, I suppose. “Why did you invite Nadia’s sisters to the Masquerade?”

Portia sighs.  “Well, Nazali, um, Dr. Satrinava wanted me to write meant Milady woke.  And I just want Milady to have some people around her who she can actually trust.  Not the courtiers.”

I finish the last mouthful of borscht and set my spoon aside.  “Yes, they are . . . I don’t even know what they are.”

“I don’t think they’re human.  Except maybe Valerius. And he’s a self pickled human.  Did you  _ actually _ talk with him last night?”

“I did.  He’s definitely gotten himself into a pickle.  And the others -”

“Three are clowns, and Valdemar is something out of a nightmare.  They’ve still got some sort of research lab underneath the palace.  None of the servants are sure where it is, and none of us want to know.”  She glances over at a clock on the wall. “Damn. I’ve got to get back to the palace.  You can finish up, just let yourself out. If you don’t want to go back through the maze, just turn right at the hedge and walk around it.  You’ll hit the southwest corner of the palace.”

I tidy up Portia’s kitchen once I’ve finished.  It only seems polite after she fed me lunch, and followed her directions to bypass the maze.  The orchard continues as I walk, turning to pear and apple trees, then into a stand of cherry trees.  Disappointing that it’s too late into the summer for the cherries to be in season and too early for the pears.  I wouldn’t have minded purloining a few of either. 

The southwest corner of the palace appears to be isolated from the public eye, or at least I would conclude that based on the structural, rather than ornamental appearance.  Brambles and creeper crawl up the rough cut granite blocks that fall away toward the moat below. The worst of the weeds have been scythed back recently, but it lacks the careful tending of the garden.  In a single spot, the lush green foliage has died back, leaves browned and blackened in spots. Odd. I scramble down a broken stairway to get a closer look. There’s a sticky looking red liquid dripping from a crack in the stonework, oozing onto the ground below.  The viscous substance has been leaking for sometime, forming a narrow path down the cracked pavers and into the moat below. 

A slow current carries trail of red through the moat until it drains into a narrow stream.  The reeds and cattails growing along the bank are withered and brown, when they should be at the height of their summer growth.  That can’t be good. I walk around the moat until I find a narrow side bridge, cross over that, and then double back to the stream.  Kneeling down by the bank, I examine the growth. The corruption is worst closest to the water, but it seems to be spreading to the vegetation further up the bank.  The bodies of dead minnows litter the bottom of the stream bed, decomposing slowly into the mud. 

The stream meanders through the grain field and toward one of the main aqueducts that supplies water to the city.  I stand up and brush dirt off my knees. The dead vegetation continues as I follow the stream through the field. It doesn’t seem as severe when I get further from the palace and the red stain dilutes in the water, but there are still dead plants along the banks.  Certainly this isn’t something that should be contaminating the city water supply, assuming the stream empties into the aqueduct.

It takes longer than I expected to reach the aqueduct.  The stream doubles back on itself multiple times as it works through the uneven topography of the field and down toward the city.  When I reach the aqueduct, the sun is low in the sky, and I’m dismayed, but unsurprised to find that it does empty into the aqueduct.  The red is faint by this point, but it’s still visible in the water. Even without the poison, this is sheer carelessness on the part of the civil engineers, especially given the likelihood that refuse from the palace ends up dumped in the moat and the various exotic animals residing therein.

I follow the aqueduct down to the reservoir that routes water to the fountains that dot the public squares of the south end of the city or into the canals that criss cross the city before finally emptying into the harbor.  It’s growing dark when I come to the dam that holds the reservoir about ten feet over the canal below. I’m simultaneously surprised and not given how fate seems to be working the past few days to spot another person. He’s sitting on the edge of the dam, long legs dangling off the side, an unseasonably heavy black coat draped over his shoulders, and a head of familiar red brown hair.  

“What are you doing here?”

When he looks up, eyebrows raised in surprise for a moment, then he falls back into his former pensive pose.  “I’d ask you the same thing. But we just seem to keep running into each other.”

I sit down next to him on the edge of the dam.  As I do, the bone white mask he’s holding in his hands catches my eye.  I push back a wave of nausea and look away from it. “I followed a stream down from the palace.  There’s some red liquid seeping into it from the palace and then into the aqueduct.”

“Huh?  That’s . . . well, no one’s actually contracted the plague in years, it mustn’t make much of a difference.”

“But you  _ do _ think it has something to do with the plague.”

He shrugs.  “Maybe, but the city somehow survived all that.”

“A lot of people didn’t.”  I don’t remember the plague, but along with what I’ve been told, the sheer number of abandoned houses scattered throughout the city testified to a decimating effect on the population.

His shoulder hunch further than they already were.  “I know. Believe me, I know. I was useless enough then.  Only more useless now. Not much use for a plague doctor when there’s no plague.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him turning the mask over in his hands.  Then he tosses it away from him. It falls into the canal below with splash, and I can’t stop myself from breathing a sigh of relief.  

“You really don’t like that thing, do you?”

“No.”  It makes my breath catch in my throat and my skin crawl like I need to somehow get out of it in order to survive.

“Well, it’s gone now.  One more piece of my past self slipping through my fingers.”

I’m quiet for a moment, unsure of how to respond.  “Certainly you were  _ something _ before you were a plague doctor?”

“Yes, well, have you ever seen the aftermath of a battle?  I never knew if I was doing any good helping patch soldiers up.  Not sure if it was doing them any favors to survive. Most died after a few days.  Infection. You can only burn so much out with a hot iron.” He hangs his head, and I can’t stop the impulse to reach out and rub the back of his neck.  He tilts his head back into my hand with a half suppressed groan, then drops his chin back onto his chest. “Working here, during the plague, well, um, really before the plague, it was the first time I felt like I was actually doing something with a purpose, instead of wandering aimlessly and trying to put out fires as I came across them, or, um, running from fires that I had set myself.  But I suppose I wasn’t really.” 

"When did you come to Vesuvia?”  I allow my hand to drift halfway down his back, then pull it back into my lap.  

"A few months before the plague reached here.  I set up a clinic in the South End. It needed one.  Nice to do something good, even if it wasn't what I was sent for."

"You had a different reason to be here?”

"My mentor sent me.  We, they, studied the red plague.  There was a pattern, you see. First an infestation of beetles, then red water, maybe from the beetles, wasn't clear.  They thought Vesuvia might be next. Would've come themself, but, um, the Countess wouldn't have them. Family thing. So, anyway - " 

A doctor the Countess refused to have in her court?  Couldn't be too many of those. "Was your mentor Nazali Satrinava?"

He turns to me, one eye wide with shock.  "I - how did you know that?”

Before I can answer, there’s a screech above us, and the raven - the same one from last night? - circles overhead.  Julian straightens up. “Look sharp. Palace guards.” He pushes himself off the wall, landing nimbly on his feet, and holds a hand out, clearly intending to help me down.  I reach out with one hand to take his and set my other palm on the dam to push myself off. But the stone I put my hand on is slick with some sort of mold, and I lose my balance and toppling over the wall and into the canal below.

The water closes over my head, unexpectedly cold in the summer heat.  I float for a second, too shocked to try to figure out which way is up and which is down.  A ribbon of white twists around me as I spin in the water and then a sudden, sharp pain grips my side.  I double over in panic, then a strong hand seizes my arm, hauling me to the surface and onto the embankment.  

“Dema, are you -?  Oh hell, one of those damn eels.”

He pushes aside my shirt and I glance down at the eel, remembering Portia’s comment about how they can suck a man dry in minutes.  It’s pale body pulses red with my blood. Mesmerizing really, watching life being sucked out of your body, even when your ears begin ringing and your vision swims from plummeting blood pressure.  Not that bad of a way to go, the world dissolving into glimmering motes and then darkness creeping into your vision. Peripheral goes first, softly, almost gently into night . . .

Julian seizes the eel behind it’s jaws and jerks sharply.  I yelp as the teeth tear free from my flesh. Long teeth, buried deep.   I'm still losing blood, and rapidly. The raven circles us again, still screeching, and I think I can hear footsteps approaching.  Julian pulls me to my feet, catching me as I waver and nearly fall back into the canal. “We need to get out of here. Can you walk?  No, stupid question.” He picks me up easily and runs down the street. Each jostling step sends another shock of pain through my body, calling me back from wherever my mind is trying to drift off to.  I’m dimly aware of being wrapped in his heavy coat and set down on the ground. I press my hand to my side and then pull it away sticky with blood.

“Oh, that can’t be good.  Not good at all. Is it okay if I take a look at that?”  Stars have started continue dancing in my field of vision even when I let my eyes close.  I open my mouth, but I can’t manage to get any words out. “Okay, I have to take that as a yes.”  He pushes my shirt aside again, and there’s another stab of pain as he touches the wound in my side.  "Oh, that's bad." His voice sounds more distant than it did a moment before. "Don't worry, darling, you'll be fine.  Just a moment." His hands pulls away from me, then touches again, flaring ice cold, just as it had the other night when he broke into my shop, and I hit my head on the doorframe.  The chill radiates across my stomach. As my head stops swimming, the cold fades without leaving behind any trace of pain. I run my fingers over my abdomen. There’s still blood, but the wound is gone, leaving nothing behind.  I open my eyes and sit up slowly, pushing myself back against the wall. Julian is still kneeling in the alley, clutching his head with his right hand. The left, tattoo marking a murder visible without his gloves, is pressed against his side, just over a blossoming red stain.

“What?  How did you -?”

He groans and collapses forward, clutching at his own side.  I scramble forward and grab his shoulders, maneuvering him around so that his back is against one of the walls.  His head tilts back against the stone, revealing an intricate glowing mark on his throat. I place my hand against his neck, two fingers against the carotid artery - which is still beating strongly - and thumb barely touching the mark on his neck.  I can’t quite place the geometric design; although, I've seen it before. I’m sure, just as sure as I am that the murder’s brand doesn’t belong on Julian’s hand.

He chuckles, but it’s a pained sound.  “Admiring your master’s handiwork?”

The magic isn’t Asra’s.  It doesn’t  _ feel _ like his work.  “What is this?” I move my hand away from his neck, letting it settle on his shoulder.

“A blessing and a curse.  I, um, take away bodily wounds, but then I get to experience myself.”  He groans again and puts his tattooed hand against the ground, like he’s about to try to stand.  I push down firmly on his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t stand.  That -” I start undoing the sash from around my waist.  The first thing was to stop the bleeding, then get him somewhere with enough light to examine the wound.  Maybe without the eel actually sucking, it wouldn't be so bad . . . Just something that could be cleaned up and bound with an astringent poultice to help stop the bleeding and protect against infection.  Maybe. I had been close to dead a moment before. “Let me find something to -”

“Oh, don’t worry.  Won’t last. Never does.  Appropriate, eh? For a parting gift from a witch who fears commitment.”

I glance down at his side.  The blood stain on his jacket is still growing underneath his fingers.  I put my hand over his and press down firmly, trying to staunch the flow of blood.  He shivers from the blood loss and lifts his head enough to look down at me. 

“Of course, I’ve never been bitten by a vampire eel before.  This, um, could be interesting.”

“Why did you -”

“What, help you?  Right thing to do.”  His head lolls back again, face contorted into a grimace.  “Besides, something about you. Don’t want to let you get hurt . . .”  His voice trails off. I move my free hand back to his neck. The mark is fading, but his heart is beating faster than before trying to get oxygen through him with insufficient volume.  The next words are mumbled, faint enough that I almost don’t catch them. “Not this time.”

I sit back on my heels, keeping one hand lightly against his neck and the other pressed against his side.  The bleeding slows, quicker than it should have, but still slower than I would have liked.  _ This _ time?  What did that mean?  I feel like I know him from some time before, but he keeps referencing that he doesn’t know me.  But then, he also already referenced his own memories of the plague being cloudy and confused. 

“You could go, you know,” he mumbles.  “It's healing already. I can tell.”

“Nope.”

“You should.”

“You said you helped me because it was the right thing to do.  Staying with you now is also the right thing.” Not only did it not feel right to leave him  _ presumably not actually _ bleeding out in alley, I wanted to know what he meant when he said this time.  If he even knew. The grammar of this entire scenario was starting to make my head spin.

“Foolish of you, really.”

“You seem to like calling me that.”

“Heh, you noticed.”  The same damn raven careens down the alley screaming at the top of its lungs.  Julian staggers to his feet before I can stop him, then grabs my arm and hauls me up.  “Come on, can’t hang around here.” He drags me down the street at a quick clip, managing not to stagger too much.  I can hear footsteps on the streets behind us, the distinctive ratatatat of the hobnail boots worn by the palace guard.   _ Shit. _  Still allowing Julian to drag me along I let my magic wander a bit from side to side, probing at the buildings, hoping to find one that’s been abandoned.  Or . . . a hollow feeling space appears on my right . . . an empty garden with ironwork gate. That’ll do. 

I dig my heels into the ground and pull Julian to a halt, something that I probably couldn’t have managed it he hadn’t just been hemorrhaging blood.  “Here.” Before I can begin to work on undoing the locked gate with magic, Julian hisses something about no time, and boosts me over the gate, before pulling himself up and over.  We both tumble into the overgrown shrubs - which I am exceedingly happy to discover are  _ not _ roses -  below. Julian presses a finger to my lips holding me still until the staccato rhythm of the guards’ boots have passed.  He breathes a sigh of relief and then rolls over onto clearer ground.

“You’re not half bad at this escaping the guards thing.  Nice little place you've found.”

The long untended garden is a riot of plant life.  Beyond the now somewhat crushed shrubbery, ornamental willows hang low to the ground, creating a wonderfully (and conveniently) private little nook.  Julian offers me a hand up, then wanders deeper into the space, one arm tucked tight to his side. Magic healing or not there’s almost no way that he didn’t reopen that wound jumping over the fence - not with a deep tear like that.  I dust off my trousers and follow him further back into the overgrowth. He needs to lay down, and I don't think he will unless I make him. 

There’s a surprising amount of statuary for this side of the city, all half covered by exuberant vines.  I pause next to one and examine the tiny orange flowers covering the vine. Runner beans. Clever, if the current neighbors realized they had an edible plant flourishing next door.  Julian flings his arms dramatically around the neck of one of the statues, some god or monster that’s impossible to identify with half of the face sloughed off from wear and tear.

“Fearsome looking fellow, don’t you think?”

“I don’t scare easily.”  

"Oh, would you fancy a monster?”

The subtext isn’t hard to grasp.  "You're not a monster." I push him back against the statue, intending to check his side.  There’s still no light to speak of, the moon only having just begun to wax in the sky. But I can make do.  He’s surprisingly pliable underneath my hands. As I expected, he did tear the bite back open, but the flesh seems to be knitting together once more.  He gasps as I prod at the wound, but the sound isn’t quite one of pain. Then one arm wraps around my back and pulls me close to him.

“Don’t worry.  I’ll be fine. If nothing else has killed me, this isn’t going to.  Promise.”

I sigh and lean my forehead against him, one arm around his waist and the other on his chest.  His heart - and mine to when I take a moment to pay attention to it - pounds from the adrenaline.  But the longer we stand together, the more each of our pulses start to slow. I can't put words to why it feels right to be standing in dark, pressed against him, but it just is.  And after the last few days, I'll take anything that feels right.

“I panicked when you hit that water.”  His voice is a quiet whisper. He loosens his hold on me, just enough for me to take a half step back so that I can look up and see his face.  His eyebrows are knit together with worry, even if I'm not the one still bleeding.

I smile then realize that he might not be able to see the expression in the dim light and pat his arm.  “The eel was the real problem.”

He brushes his thumb across my cheeks.  “But you're okay, right?”

“I'm fine.”  I turn away from him.  There's a low stone border along one of the garden beds, roughly a foot high.  I hop up onto the narrow edge, hoping none of the stones are loose or I'll be taking another tumble.  “Thanks to you.” The border seems stable if not actually quite wide enough to stand on easily. I hold my arms out and walk along it, balancing like a small child just for the fun of it.  And it puts me closer to Julian's eye level. Closer, but not quite there.

He crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head, but there's an amused grin on his face.  “You are too precious.”

“Precious?”  I pause at the end of the border closest to him.  

“Yes.”  He leans down - standing on the stone wall didn't add that much to my height - and kisses my forehead gently.  “Precious. Rare. Valuable. Something to protect.”

“Hmm, I don't know about that.”  I grab a nearby branch and hop off the wall.  The movement shakes a smattering of debris from the untended tree and onto my head.  Excellent. More of a hot mess than ever. 

Julian laughs and starts picking odds and ends out of my hair.  He pauses, then draws his hand back. “Look you found another bit of beauty.”  He holds out a small flower, delicately blue and faintly luminescent. I reach out for it, but he snatches it back.  “Ah careful. There's poison in it. A few drops of oil distilled from this will end a man. Topple an empire of you use it right.”

He's got a smug look on his face.  I take his hand in mine, holding the flower between us.  “It's also a medicine. A miniscule dose taken regularly strengthens a weak heart.”

The smugness turns to surprise.  “I . . . I did not know that.”

I shrug, doubtlessly looking just as smug as he did a moment ago.  “I'm a better herbalist than a fortune teller. Additionally, it's a lovely addition to an ornamental garden.  The climbing vine adds in an element of height.”

He tucks the flower behind my ear.  “Again - precious.”

I narrow my eyes at him, slightly suspicious of the compliment, then pulled him deeper into the garden, before settling myself down on the ground beside one of the crumbling statues.  He sits beside me and folds his long legs up in front of him. The flower falls from my hair as he brushes a loose, damp lock back from my face. His lips are tantalizing close to mine.  I turn my face away before I give into the impulse to pick back up where we were interrupted the other morning and touch my hand to his side.

“Let me check that bite again.”  I start pushing aside the fabric of his shirt.  He shivers, just slightly, when I touch him. The wound is closing back up again after his scramble over the fence.  

“It’s fine, it’ll be . . . oh.”  The soft moan he makes as I press my fingers against him is definitely something other than pained and his hand wraps tightly around my arm.  I look up and experimentally touch my fingers to the bite again. He stiffens, then his mouth is on mine, hungry and insistent. I shift one hand to the back of his neck and pull him closer to me.  He pushes me back on the ground, lips moving from my mouth to my jaw to my neck, and lingering there for a few delicious moments before flipping us both over, so that I’m on top of him straddling his waist.  He’s biting one side of his lower lip, and his face is flushed as he looks up at me. I nudge the bite with my knee and he groans again, eyes rolling back. My eyebrows arch with interest; although, somehow I'm not surprised.  I can . . . work with this. Leaning over him, I close my teeth around his bottom lip and pull it from between his own, as I tighten my legs around his torso. I let go of his lip and though my cheek to his, mouth beside his ear.

"You like that, don't you?”  

"Mmmm... Yes, I, oh -”

I cut him off with a hand over his mouth.  "Don't talk too much, Julian."

His hands find my thighs, sliding along them as I sit back up and slide my hand from his mouth to his chin, while my other drags slowly down his chest.  "I wonder what else you like?"

"Anything."  His answer is barely a gasp.

"Anything?”  I lean back down, pressing my lips to the corner of his jaw, then running my tongue along his neck to where it met his shoulder.  Shifting more weight to my right hip to put pressure that bite, I grab his skin in my teeth, only moderately at first, but harder as his hands tighten around my thighs.  He whines when I let go and circle my fingertips around the impressions of my teeth. In the dim light, I can just make out the purple bruise shifting to green then gray then nothing as it fades from his pale skin.

"Well, that must be frustrating for you."

He laughs quietly.  "You have no idea, my darling."  

We both go still and silent as the clatter of hobnail boots against cobblestones passes by again.  They stop near the garden gate. I press my forehead to Julian's, keeping one hand over his mouth.

"I swear it was Devorak I saw running.  Had some wench with him."

"Do you think they went in here?”

"Locked up."

"Could have jumped it though.  That chain is rusty enough - can you break it?"  

There's a sudden, sharp rap - metal against metal.  Julian's eyes go wide, starting to panic. "Don't say anything," I hiss.  I half sit up and quickly sketch a diagram in the air. A glamour that should both hide us and subtly push the guards attention elsewhere.  Powerful, but it won't hold long.

Another clang and the sound of a chain falling away.  Leaves crunch under the guards feet as they tromp through the garden.  I stay perfectly still against Julian, pouring all my concentration into holding the glamour as long as possible.  The footsteps stop right next to us. I cover Julian's mouth with one hand and hold my breath. Finally, one guard speaks.

"Nothing here but overgrown statues.  Told you."

"Eh, no harm in checking.  Due diligence and whatnot."

Leaves crunch as the guards walk away.  Finally the gate screeches to a close and I can drop the glamour.  With a sigh, I roll of him, laying back on the ground. "That was close."

"Too close."  Julian sits up, then touches one hand to my forehead.  "What did you do?”

"Magic.  They couldn't see us."  I flip myself over and get to my knees.  

He narrows his eyes at me, then picks himself up off the ground before extending a hand.  “We shouldn’t stay here. Come on, I’ve got a friend nearby, we can hole up at her place for the night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome. I love to hear from people about what's working, what isn't, and what they'd like to see more of. :D
> 
> You can also say hi on Tumblr at [Aria-i-Adagio](https://aria-i-adagio.tumblr.com/).


	11. Yes, I Love You.  I mean, I'd Love to Get to Know You.  -NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely NSFW.
> 
>  
> 
> **Trigger warning for suicidal ideation and body horror with a dream sequence. Dream sequence is italicized if you need to skip that content but want to read the rest of the chapter.**
> 
> Title from Franz Ferdinand, "Katherine Kiss Me"

 

_“Katherine, kiss me_

_Slippy little lips will split me_

_Split me where your eye won't hit me_

_Yes, I love you, I mean I'd -_

_I'd love to get to know you_

_Sometimes I say the stupid things, I think_

_I mean, I -_

_Sometimes I think the stupidest things.”_

[~Franz Ferdinand, ‘Katherine, Kiss Me’](https://youtu.be/1xvROfRiRGw)

 

The streets are quiet - a touch too late for people to be headed to the bars, and a little early for people to be headed back home from them - when we reemerge from the garden.  Julian offers me his arm and I take it, walking close to him, stepping quickly to keep up with is long strides; although, I can tell that he’s slowing his pace for me.

“Why were you at the reservoir anyway?” 

“Hmm?  Oh, yeah, that.  I like being near water.  Helps me think. Usually I go down by the docks but they’re pretty busy during the day.  It’s a lot quieter there. The reservoir, I mean, not the docks.” He squeezes my hand. “Worked out well enough for me.”

“That’s debatable.”

“What you mean the eel bite?  That’s nothing. Minor inconvenience.”  He loops his arm around my waist and lifts me over a section of crumbled sidewalk.  I could just as easily have stepped over it. “Besides what if I hadn’t been there and you fell in anyway.  Doesn’t bear thinking of.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, I’ve got to be good for something after all.”  He stops beside a low stone wall. “Ah, here we are. Up and over.”  As with the _terrible hazard_ of the sidewalk, he picks me up and sets me on the walk.  I spin my legs over and drop down into the sideyard of a humble cottage.  Julian vaults himself over the wall landing beside me and steps over the house, pushing open a window.  “Don’t want to risk someone seeing us,” he explains as he boosts me through the window and into a cluttered kitchen.  I don’t have time to look around before he follows, tumbling through the window and knocking a flowerpot to the floor with a crash.

There’s an indignant shout from the room beyond.  “ _Ilya - tisyache raz ckazala tebe, u menya est’ dver dlya princhiye!_ ”  A short, stout woman holding an oil lamp in her hand and scolding in a language I don’t immediately recognize, pushes aside a curtain and matches on the room.  She grips a spoon like sword in her other hand and shakes it menacingly at Julian. He cringes dramatically, ducking and throwing his hands over his head. 

“Sorry, Mazelinka.  I’ll um, I’ll get you a new flowerpot.”

“Hmph.  It’s not the pot I’m worried about.”  She looks me over and switches to the trade language.  “And who is this?” She sets the lantern down on the table and peers at me closely.  Her eyes narrow for a moment focusing on my face, then she shakes her head and takes one slow step back from me.  “Girl, is it actually you?”

“I’m sorry I don’t know you.”  I don’t remember meeting - ever seeing her - before, but does she know me?  It’s certainly possible. Hypothetically I did know people other than Asra in the twenty five odd years I’m missing. 

She raises one eyebrow at me, then with the smallest shake of her head, turns her gaze on Julian.  “And what is this? You not only broke in through the window, you’re trailing blood and mud across my floors!”

“Um, yeah, had a bit of a mishap.  Several mishaps, actually.”

She swats him with the wooden spoon.  “Go get yourself washed up, Ilya. There’s some clothes of yours in the chest by the back door.”

“Mazelinka, this is -”

“Your friend is safe enough with me.  Shoo.”

Julian gives me a helpless look then retreats down a short hallway.  I can’t blame him. The woman - Mazelinka - commands every last inch of this house.  That much is clear. She turns back to me, chuckling. “Scolding them never grows old - even if I do.  You’re not in much better shape, are you?”

“I, um -”  My trousers are covered in mud, my shirt is still stained with blood, and between an unintended swim and running through the streets, I’m positive my hair is a sight to behold.  

“Don’t worry, girl.  If you’re a friend of that scalawag’s you’re a friend of mine.  Come, I think I can find something clean that will do you for the time being.”  She walks back to the curtained off room, steps strong and sure despite her age.  “So what’s your name?”

“Uh, Dema, ma’am.”

She laughs aloud and opens a chest by the foot of the bed, rummaging through the contents.  “Ma’am, huh - haven’t heard that one in a while. So, what was it this time? Bar brawl, tripped over his own feet and into a canal, ill considered fight with a bull, waiting for smugglers on the beach, then running from the guards?”

“Vampire eel.  It actually bit me, but -”

“Ah, you were the one who tripped over your own feet and into the canal!  That 'curse' of his is awfully handy at times.” Mazelinka thrusts a bundle of fabric at me.  “It’ll be big on you, but it’ll do to curl up next to that lout and sleep in.” She winks, and I feel my cheeks warming at her casual implication that I would be sleeping here.  With Julian. Not that I am exactly opposed to the idea. “I'll have your clothes clean by morning, but I’m not sure that bloodstain is coming out.”

“It’s, you don’t have to,”  I stammer through a half hearted protest.  She puts her hand on my arm and pats it kindly.

“You’ve clearly had a hard night.  No sense staggering off to whenever it is you live these days.  There's enough water in the rain barrel out back to wash up a bit.  If Ilya leaves any. And I'll warm up some soup. Looks like the both of you could use it.”

She adds two worn, but soft towels to the pile in my arms and shoves me toward the back door.  Confused, but feeling strangely secure under her care, I pull the door open and step out into a walked off yard.  Julian's jacket and shirt are laying on the ground in a haphazard pile, and he's cleaning the blood off his side with a damp cloth.  He looks up and grins. “Not enough water left to just pour it over my head. And the curse unfortunately doesn't clean up after itself.”

I drape the clothing Mazelinka gave me over the back of a chair by the door and walk over to him, touching the unbroken skin where the bite should have been.  “Amazing. Do you know how it works?”

He shivers as I trail my fingers up his chest.  “I don't understand the first thing about magic.  Not the how. Not the why.”  

"How'd you come by it?"

"I told you, it's As- the witch's work."  

There he goes ago, almost saying Asra's name before cutting himself off.  Just how badly _had_ that ended?  I take a step closer to him, hand now pressed flat against his chest.  "I think I'd recognize Asra's work." Whatever this magic was, it wasn’t Asra’s doing.  The signature was something even more enigmatic.

"Would you?”  He curls his fingers around my hand, looking down at me with serious eyes.  "How well do you know him, Dema? Things he's done?"

"I -”  Pulling my hand out of his, I take a step back.  I want to know, but I'm not sure that I _want_ to know.  Asra is my only constant, or at least the comforting illusion of a constant.  "What has he done?”

"Is blood normally used in magic?”

Blood?  What had Asra been up to, if he was using blood magic?  That didn’t necessarily indicate malevolence, but it was a sign of desperation if he had resorted to blood magic.  "Not often. Blood is very potent as part of a spell - dangerous even. Julian, what was he trying to do?" I had never tried anything with blood, but all the books were stern in their warnings.  The amount of power that blood magic could unleash, even if well intended, could get out of hand quickly.

"I, well that is -”  Julian groans and rubs his forehead.  "I don't remember. But after, after whatever it was, Lucio's room went up in flames, and I had this, this mark, this curse - whatever the hell it is."  He leans over and begins to undo the fastenings of his boots - no small undertaking. “I, um, don't really even like magic, truth be told.”

“You seem to have an intimate enough relationship with it.”

“Yeah, well, um, sometimes marriages get arranged without much input from the involved parties.”  He struggles out of one boot, then the other, leaving me wondering just why he'd choose to wear something so impractical.  Thick socks come off next, and he briskly runs a damp towel over each foot, pausing to rub at the arch before tossing the washrag in the same pile as his shirt and jacket.  “Guess I should let you clean up some.” Flexing his bare feet against the ground, he steps back toward the house. I grab the hem of my shirt to pull it over my head, then realizing I haven't heard the door open or close, I stop and look back over my shoulder.  Julian leans against the doorframe, dopey grin on his face. I roll my eyes, turn my back to him and peel the damp shirt off, tossing it to the side.

“That's all for now.”

“Mmm... I'll take it, my dear.”

As the door creaks open and closed, I strip out of my muddy and bloody clothing, and hurriedly clean the remaining blood from my hands and torso.  The night is chilly and who knows who Mazelinka's neighbors are. I toss the shirt she found for me over my head. It comes well past my knees and threatens to fall off one shoulder or the other, but the rope belt helps hold it in place.  A bit at least. But it'll do. I leave my own clothes in a pile beside Julian's, feeling like the world's worst guest, but unsure of what else I could do with them.

Julian is sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in some sort of clean soft pants and a much mended shirt, working on a large bowl of soup.  Mazelinka is talking quietly to him in the same language as before. I cough, and she looks up, beckoning me over to the table. “Come eat. I was just telling Ilya that he isn't leaving until he gets some sleep.  And you look like you need some as well.”

“Maz’, I haven’t really needed that much sleep.  Not since the -” He yelps as she smacks him once again with her wooden spoon.

“I know, I know.  Since the curse. Eat.”  She taps the spoon against the top of his head for good measure and ladles out a bowl for me from a pot tucked into a compartment of the massive oven.  Turning aside for a moment, she add a few pinches of herbs to the bowl, followed by a generous spoonful of sour cream. She hands the bowl to me. I raise my eyebrows at her and breath in the rising steam.  It's a simple, homey soup, mostly cabbage, onions, and carrots seasoned with plenty of garlic and caraway, but I recognize several non culinary herbs. All innocuous enough, and all intended for the same thing: encouraging an overly busy mind to rest.  I nod knowingly at her and dig in. If this actually gets me to sleep, I will insist on the recipe.

She watches with satisfaction as we both polish off a bowl.  “Here, girl -” She slides a tortoiseshell comb across the table to me.  “Thought you might want to straighten out your hair a bit.” She disappears down the back hallway.  I grab a lock of my hair and work at the tangles.  

"Here, let me help."  Julian takes the comb from me and starts working on my hair.  "I used to help my little sister fix hers."

"Portia is worried about you."  

He pauses for a moment and sighs.  "I wish she wouldn't. I'm not worth it.  Anyway -” He continues with my hair. "How is she?  We didn't have much to talk yesterday, and she spent most of it telling me off.  Deserved it, I'll admit."

"I think she likes working at the palace.  But it's complicated for her. She really cares about the Countess, so . . ."

"Yeah . . . If I had known, I probably would have just stayed gone.  Everyone would be happier that way."

"Why would you assume that?  She and I want to prove that you're innocent.  Then there's no conflict."

He leans his head against my shoulder, mumbling his next line morosely against my neck.  "There you go again, assuming I'm innocent. Did your cards tell you that or something?”

"No, but I still believe that you are."

He lifts his head and starts working on the other side of my hair.  "Well, I hope you can prove it. Not for me, really. I may not have murdered the Count, but I'm sure I did something to deserve hanging.  But for Pasha. And Maz. And, well, you. I'm not a good person to start caring about, Dema."

“I’m not sure that you get much say over who cares for you.”  I’m not convinced that we get much say over who we care for either.  Life certainly would be easier if we did, instead of remaining attached to people.

Mazelinka returns with my filthy clothes dining them into the sink along with a bucket of water and a handful of soft soap.  "Won't be dry until mid morning tomorrow, so I'll leave you two to sleep in. Don't know about you, girl, but that one is forever owing a debt to Hypnos."

“And Thanatos!”  Julian chimes in, far too cheerily to be about the idea of owing Death.

The old woman sighs and shakes her head.  “Well, then, I’m getting these old bones to bed.  The two of you can sleep in the loft. Should still be blankets up there from the last time you crashed through the window, Ilya.”  

* * *

There’s a loft, probably intended for storage, over the kitchen accessible by a ladder and closed off with a curtain.  Julian climbs up the ladder then reaches down, offering me a hand that I refuse. It's easier to climb with both hands.  I roll into the loft and summon a light before I pull the heavy curtains closed behind me. It’s a small space - not even I could stand upright and Julian’s head threatens to brush the ceiling when he sits upright.  There’s a thick mattress and a pile of pillows and blankets. It’s a cozy little nook, much more than a makeshift place to hole up for a night. Julian tosses pillows into a heap at one end of the mattress, snaps a blanket out, and arranges his long limbs out on the bed.   

“Don't worry.  I'll be a perfect gentleman.”

“Oh will you now?”  I lay down on my side next him and trail my fingers over his chest.  “That's a shame.” Flattening my palm against his shoulder, I push him onto his back.  Or rather, he lets me push him, responding to the slightest pressure from my hand. He pulls my hand to his mouth and kisses my palm and nibbles at my fingertips.  “I'm not much sure I'm interested in perfect gentlemen.”

“I, um, I can -”  He bites his bottom lip as I swing one leg over him, straddling his waist yet again.  I slide my hands up to his shoulders, then his jaw, before cradling his face and running my thumbs over his cheekbones.  Kissing the tip of his nose, I run one hand through his hair and draw the other along his jaw, enjoying the feeling of the beginning of a beard underneath my fingers.  His breath is a gasp, catching briefly in his throat. “I can be whatever you want.”

“Can you now?”  I lean over and kiss him, slowly, taking my time with his lips and catching my fingers in his lovely hair.  Strong hands wrap around the back of my thighs, sliding up until I'm very aware I'm not wearing anything underneath this shirt.

“Mmm, yeah, whatever you want.  Tell me. I'll do it."  

What will be the interruption this time?  A flock of angry chickens? His granny with a spoon?  I should feel worse about canoodling in a house that didn't belong to either of us, but a couple of days worth of frustrated lust was overwhelming good manners.  Well, and given the nudge and the wink I had, it seemed like the old woman both expected and approved of canoodling. But, a bit of precaution might be in order. I straighten up for a moment and weave my fingers through the air, adding an extra layer over the heavy curtains to prevent any sounds from passing through and fixing a gently glowing ball of light in one corner of the loft.  Then I untie the sash from around my waist and begin undoing the buttons on my borrowed shirt - probably one of his spare ones. His hands tighten on me, fingers digging into my ass cheeks. Leaning back down I press my cheek against his and nibble at his earlobe. "Tell me what you like." I drag my teeth against the skin where his neck and jaw meet, end of the day stubble scratching just so against my lips.  He moans. "Is that something?”

"Yes . . . please, harder."

"Hmm."  I return to his neck leaving a trail of bite marks down to his collarbone, taking time with each one, even if it will fade almost immediately.  His hands slide deeper between my legs, fingertips teasing against the folds that I can already feel growing swollen and wet. I press my mouth harder to his collarbone, hiking happily against him as one of his hands drags back around my thigh, turning and pushing back between my legs, fingers running along the outside folds, still teasing.  Let him tease. I feel relaxed and languid, safe in this little nest.  

I slide my hands from his shoulders to his chest, running fingers around his nipples and experimentally catching one between thumb and forefinger.  "And here?”  

"Mmm, still harder."  

I pinch my fingers together as tightly as I can, getting a groan of pleasure from him.  A notion strikes me, and I use magic to chill my fingers, nearly to ice. He jerks in surprise, then moans as my lips close around his nipple, scraping my teeth over it.  

"Do that again."  

I laugh softly, then repeat the process on the other side of his chest.  When I lift my head, his eyes and closed and his cheeks flushed. I draw a chilled hand down his sternum, then reverse the spell, raising my fingers to just above body temperature before drawing them back up to his collarbone, pausing and cocking an eyebrow at him.  This please is a gasp. I smile and press my hand - cold again - against his neck. He moans, biting his lower lip, and I push a bit harder against his throat before leaning over to kiss the cold away.

"I, uh -”  He gasps again as I press a chilled thumb to the pulse point on the other side of his neck.  I close my teeth over the same spot, biting hard, even if I know that the curse side of whatever spell he’s under will heal the bruise within moments.  His hands tighten on my thighs as he moans beneath me.

I sit up and undo the remaining buttons on my shirt.   "Julian." His eyes snap open, then widen at the sight of the shirt falling off my shoulders.  "Touch me." His left hand uncurls from my thigh and ghosts along my stomach, settling over my breast, heel pressing into soft flesh while his fingers toyed the hardened nipple.  I sink into a sigh as his other hand finally works between my legs, middle finger circling my entrance then dragging along my slit, teasing up then back down to push inside me, rubbing just so.  Letting myself fall forward with tiny whine, I find his lips with mine, hips raised just high enough from his chest to give his fingers access while I roll my hips against his hand. A second finger joins the first curling inside me, while his thumb circles my clit.

His hand withdraws, and I grab at his wrist with a plaintive whine, while he sits up, and pushes me back against his folded legs.  His erect cock nudges between my legs, as he sits up, pulling me against him, sucking at my neck and playing with my breasts again.  I reach down, pausing to dip my fingers between my legs, coating them with moisture before sliding them over Julian's cock. He groans against my neck as I circle the thumb if one hand around the head of his cock, the other drawing up and down his shaft.   

And it seems we've dancing toward this since the moment he spoke from the shadows in my shop.  I slide down on him, and it's not joining, it's rejoining, picking back up after some inexplicable absence.  I come, gasping, my mouth pressed to his chest, and he follows a few moments later, thrusts exquisite, almost painful, against me.  We’re still for a moment, sweaty foreheads pressed together, panting breaths ghosting across each others lips. Then, tugging me with he, he falls back against the pillow, leaving behind a hollow, lonely ache as he slides out of me.  His hands pulling me up to smother my face in kisses is some consolation, especially his lips pressing softly against my closed eyelids. Sated, satisfied, I tuck my head against his neck, curling up on top of his chest, happy to keep our limbs tangled together.   

* * *

_I’m in a library.  I lift my head off a desk that’s littered with books and notebooks and run my fingers through my hair.  It’s short, barely enough to run my fingers through. Shorter than I ever remember cutting it. This isn’t the palace library.  The space is cavernous, cold, utilitarian. I stand up, running my fingers over the books on the desk. I know what’s in them. I could summarize each, but I don’t remember reading them._

_I pick a book from a nearby shelf and flip it open.  It's a picture book. A little girl with hair like mine is sitting in her father's lap while he reads to her.  Hands trembling, I put the book back. I want to see this. I want to see it all. But not now. Right now, I can't bear it._

_The aisle between the shelves leads down to a door.  I push it open and step out onto a bridge. Chunks of ice float on the surface of the water below.  It’d be so easy to join them. A fall, a couple of minutes of pain from bones breaking against the surface tension, but no more than three minutes, probably less.  Then nothing but being carried away by the river. Away from whatever it is that done, whatever I fucked up this time._

_I shudder.  I’ve been here before.  Thought that before._

_Turning back to the door, I pull my clothes - wool knits and fur lined coat, so much heavier than anything I own - tight around me.  I don’t want to be here. Not again._

_The door doesn’t lead back to the library.  It doesn’t lead anywhere, not for me. I’m not in the back room of the shop.  But the room is there, filled with the smoke of an incense I don’t recognize. But of course, I can’t because I’m not actually there.  Asra is hunched over a table, a curious collection of crystals and bones spread in front of him. A diagram is chalked on the table - the same one that’s on Julian’s neck.  Julian sits across from him at the table. His face is a study in confusion and concern._

_“Asra, what are you?  How will this -”_

_Asra lifts his head, cutting off the question.  “I wonder just how much you’re willing to give, Ilya.”_

_“For -”  His eyes - both of them, he isn’t wearing an eyepatch - flick to the right, to where I’d be standing.  If I were there, instead of not there. “Anything. All of me. You know that.”_

_Perspective folds in on itself, and Asra’s face becomes visible.  There’s a look in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Ruthless, cold violet, no sign of their usual softness.  His fingers wrap around a small curved knife. “Oh Ilya, I don’t need all of you. Just your hand.”_

_Julian gnaws at his bottom lip for a moment, then holds out his right hand, bare and unprotected by a glove.  Asra draws the knife across Julian’s palm and holds his hand over the diagram, letting Julian’s blood fall on each of the four points of the diagram.  Julian watches, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Asra turns his hand over, lips curling into something that resembles a smile, but isn’t quite one.  He bends over Julian’s hand and draws his tongue across the cut before letting go of his fingers._

_“What will that do?”_

_Asra shrugs and stands up.  “Maybe nothing.” He steps around the table and takes Julian’s hand again, bringing it to his mouth and pressing lips to knuckles._

_Julian looks up at him, mouth slightly agape and eyes wide.  "And that's all?"_

_"Why, Ilya?”  Asra turns over Julian's hand, inspecting the cut across his palm.  As he runs his thumb over it the flesh knots back together. He cups Julian’s jaw in his hand, smearing blood across his cheekbone.  When he speaks his voice is deceptively soft. "Did you want me to hurt you more?”_

_Julian clutches at Asra’s hip with his other hand.  His head drops forward onto Asra’s chest. “Asra -”_

_Asra tilts his head to the side and strokes his hand through Julian’s hair.  The gesture is almost tender. “I can’t give you what you want, Ilya.” He places the emphasis on can’t, as if he somehow regrets what he’s saying._

_Julian lifts his head, looking up at Asra.  “I’ll take what I can get.”_

_The door reappears and with it my hands.  I pull it open and step out onto a beach. Grey in the moonlight and smelling of equal parts smoke and ash.  Here the air is warm and humid. I shrug off the coat, letting it fall to the sand, and unwind the scarf from around my neck.  My hair is long once more, hanging down my back in a simple braid._

_A slender figure, white hair glowing in the moonlight stands on the shore, looking out over a bay.  Asra. I walk up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He turns, looking at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen on his face.  No laughter. No teasing. Just pain and remorse. “I’m sorry. I should have taken you with me.”_

_"Where?”_

_"Anywhere but here."_

_There's a crackle and a roar behind me, and I turn the see the door burst into flames.  "No!” I bolt for the door, hoping - praying - that this time it would lead back to the library, that I could grab one or two of the books - the books with the little girl who looked like me.  I needed them, needed to know what had happened to her! Asra catches me, both arms wrapped around my waist._

_"Don't, you'll get hurt."_

_"Let me go."  I twist out of his hands and scramble across the sand.  Another pair of hands stops me, grasping my shoulders. I look up.  Julian. He spins me around and grabs my wrists._

_"Not again.  I won't let you die.  Not this time."_

_I struggle against his grip, trying to twist away.  Suddenly, my left arm burns, like it's caught fire. The flesh peels back from my bones, blackening.  Tendons constricting then giving way, and I can't pull my eyes away. The left wrist - it's not mine, not anymore - disarticulates as I watch, fingerbones falling into the sand beneath my feet, little sticks of charcoal in the ashy sand._

* * *

I wake with a gasp, breathing hard and confused about whether I'm awake or still dreaming, much less where I am, or whose arms are uncomfortably tight around me.  The events of the past day slowly come into focus as the images of the dream fade away. The red poison seeping into the water, eels, and Julian, no Ilya. Somehow I feel safer remembering the name Mazelinka called him.  Feeling his warmth beside me.

But his hand is tight around my arm, tight enough that I'm starting to worry about a bruise.  He moans and mumbles in his sleep. I don't catch much beyond, “sorry, so sorry . . . My fault . . . should have . . .”

I pry his fingers from my arm and summon a dim light.  Behind his eyelids, his eyes are saying back and forth, locked in whatever dream he's experiencing.  “Julian.” I try to keep my voice low. “Ilya. Wake up. You're dreaming.” He moans again, and I tap my hand against his cheek.  “It's a dream.”

He wakes with a gasp, sitting up, folding his legs to his chest and hunching over them.  I rub his back and wait for his breathing to slow down. 

“I woke you,” he finally says.  “Sorry about that.”

“Shh.  It's okay.”  I continue kneading his shoulders as much to keep myself calm as the comfort him.  Easier to just focus on him than to worry about what might underlie my own nightmares.  “What was it?”

"A beach, a fire..."  He hides his face behind both hands for a moment then pushes them back through his hair.  "Always those fucking fires..."

My own breath catches in my throat and I feel my heart start to pound again.  He was dreaming of a beach and a fire as well. Were we somehow in the same dream?  I chew at the edge of my thumb, caught between equally powerful impulses both to ask and to not ask the next question.  "Who were you apologizing to?”  

Julian shakes his head sadly and turns his face to me.  He runs his thumb along the lines of my face, before leaning over and kissing me gently.  “Someone I failed. Someone I lost. But I can never see her. Just an outline against flames."

Was I . . .?  It would explain so much: my immediate sense of connection to him, his murmured not this time, how I just knew in my bones that he wasn't a bad man - no matter what he said about it.  I settle back on the pillows and pull his head down to my breast where I can continue to play with his hair. “It’ll be okay.”

"You keep saying that."  His breath is warm on my collarbone.  The implication, of course, is that I don't know.  And he's right. I don't know. I don't know if I can find evidence that will exonerate him.  I don't know that even if I do that the Countess, that Nadia, will accept it, no matter how much I hope that Portia's faith in her isn't misplaced.  Perhaps Julian is right that Asra has some of the answers, if only he can be convinced to reveal them. But neither of us know. And while the more bits and pieces (or rather gaps where there should be at least hints of information), I uncover are leading me to believe that untangling this knot of stories around the Count's murder will have something to do with my own missing memories, I don't know that.  I don't even know that I _want_ to know.

I do know that I want Julian.  I want him whether I ever recall the memories of him that I've decided are there, hidden away past the smoke, past the fire.

"Let's leave."

"What?  What are you talking about?”

"Here.  Vesuvia.  Fuck Vesuvia, let's just leave."  I never wanted to be involved with the Countess anyway.  I didn't care who had murdered the Count. And if we stayed - if Julian stayed - and I didn't figure that out, he'd die for something he hadn't done.  I don't trust my skills as an investigator or an advocate that much. And Asra, well, whatever there is between us, I can't continue what we've been doing.  No matter how much I care for, how much I love him. I’ll leave him a note with his tarot deck. If he actually wanted me in his life he could damn well come find me instead of leaving me to wait for him.  

"Leave the city?"

"Yes."

"But, but isn't your whole life here?"

"My whole life - the part I can remember - is three fucking years."  And really only two of those are clear. My memories of the city are little more than glimmers of recognition seen out of the corner of my eye, only to disappear when I turned my attention to them.  And Julian . . . Julian is the brightest of those glimmers. "That's not much to leave behind."

"Three years?”

"I can't . . . I don't know how to explain it.  I only remember the last three years."

"Nothing else?”

"No.  Nothing that I can reach.  Sometimes I get hints, intuitions, that there's something there, but I can never grasp it.  Then I get these awful headaches."

"Dema -"

"I know it sounds impossible.  It should be impossible. Yet it's the truth.  And you, I feel like I know - knew - you."

Julian raises one hand to the side of his head, rubbing at his temple as though he feels a headache coming on.  "I don't remember you, but . . . what you're describing, it's so, I mean, I feel the same, I think. But I came back here to try to figure out why my memories from three years ago are so shot full of holes.  I can't leave until I do that." He sighs and snuggles back against me. “I can’t even remember what I did that makes me feel so guilty. How do you come back from doing something awful? Can you even?”

I continue to run one hand through his hair, and drape the other across his back, holding him tight against me.  “We don’t get much of a choice. We just have to."

His eyelids pinch closed in a pained expression, and I run my thumb lightly over them, trace the bridge of his nose, and brush over his lips before letting my hand slide down his neck and return to his.  I’m surprised when he falls back asleep, seemingly lulled by the simple touch. I'm more surprised when my mind slows, and I follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I love to hear from people either in the comments or on tumblr [@Aria-i-Adagio](aria-i-adagio.tumblr.com).


	12. I've Got that Taste in My Mouth Again

“It doesn't make no sense, no -

It's not convenient, no -

It doesn't fit my plans, no -

It's something I don't understand, oh.”

~ [Pulp, F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E.](https://youtu.be/mhdTbqdYCRU)

 

_Five years ago.  Dema._

 

At the beginning of the plague, Vesuvia's bars and taverns had been quiet.  People were trying to avoid contact with anyone who might be carrying the plague.  But as the sickness continued, as it became clear that no one and no where was safe, the bars grew boisterous with people seeking a break from unrelenting bleak scenes of the dead being carted away to mass graves like so much refuse.  When the sun set, the city turned into a massive wake, toasting the memories of the dead and the dying, and frantically clinging to what life was left.

Julian's preferred bar was on the south side of the city.  It was loud and chaotic, with cheap food and even cheaper alcohol; although, they did brew a particularly good stout that I could pretend was a sufficient supper.  At least, it felt enough like a sufficient supper. Between Anna’s death and Asra leaving after that . . . disagreement, my appetite hadn’t yet recovered. Even if it had been nearly a month.  

Inevitably as the night continued, the tables would be pulled back to the walls, leaving space for dancing along to music from a motley group of instrumentalists and singers.  I was three weeks into working with Julian and several drinks into the night when he offered a hand and pulled me onto the dance floor, whirling about to a fast tune. Still laughing - the first real laugh since Asra had left - I swung away from him and back into my seat next to Artemis, other than Asra my only particularly close friend in Vesuvia.  She smiled and pushed my beer back to me.

“Good to see you laughing again.”

I cooled the beer back off with magic and gulped some down.  “Have you heard from Sibyl?”

Artemis looked down at her drink.  “Not since the port closed down. The last letter she sent was from her cousin's in Prakra, so at least I know that she and the baby are safe.”  She lifted the stein of beer to her lips and drank deeply. “I'm glad they left.”

“But you stayed.”

“My place is here.”  Artemis, like both her mothers, was a midwife in the city.  In her mind, that extended to the city as a whole, even if her wife and her child left for safety.

"Sibyl understood?”

“She wanted to stay.  But we agreed it was more important to get Eurydice out when we could.”

I didn’t feel like I could leave either.  Not even - especially - after my aunt died.  Apothecary, herbalist, it might be informal, but at least I was doing some good here.  Not the usual, useless mess that I had been for the past four years. Asra didn’t understand.  “I wish . . .”

“Ah, Dema.”  Artemis wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me into a tight half hug.  “He'll come back. He always does. Then you'll have a different problem.” Her eyes cut over to where Julian is ordering himself another round of drinks.

I glanced to the other side of the room where Julian was chatting with a table full of laborers, based on the animation of his hands and arms he was telling another one of his dubiously factual and consistently entertaining stories.

“I like him.  Really like him.”

“I’ve noticed.”  She leaned her head on my shoulder.  “Other than Asra, I’ve never seen you taken with someone for longer than a week or two.” 

“What do you think?”

“How many have you had, child?  You’ve never asked me something like that before!”

“I haven’t felt, well, not like this anyway -”

My thoughts were cut off by Julian flopping down on the other side of the booth, back to the wall and feet on the bench.  He flung one arm over his forehead and sighed dramatically. “Ugh, almost as exhausting here as work! Everyone wants something.”

“Oh, be quiet, boy,”  Artemis scolded as she sat back up.  A good sign, actually, Artemis only scolds people she likes.  Other people get polite comments or death glares. “You love every second of it.” 

Julian’s grey eyes twinkled as he picks up the drink he had left on the table.  “Guilty as charged.” He took a sip, made a face, and slid it across the table to me.  “That’s even worse warm, you don’t think you could, my dear?”

“Of course.”  I snagged the drink and spun the glass in my hands, chilling the combination of cheap rum and god knows what else back down to a temperature that might approach drinkable.

“Mmm . . . much better.  I might be coming around on this magic thing.  Oh, before I forget.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table to Artemis.  “Two addresses for you to get one of the midwives to check on. Baby at the first who isn’t growing as well as he should be.  Oldest daughter at the second is expecting, and they didn’t have a name of a midwife. No plague at either.”

“Thanks.  I’ll get it to the right people.”  She took the paper and glanced at it before tucking it away into her shirt.  The midwives guild had broken the city down into districts and divided themselves up between houses that had seen the plague and ones that happened to try to limit the spread of the contagion.  Artemis volunteered for plague houses after Sibyl left the city, as she at least wouldn’t be taking it home to anyone. Risk reduction, presumably. Not that anyone had figured out exactly how the plague transmitted itself.  “Now, while we’re on caretaking, did either of you eat anything today?”

Julian laughs, and I hold up my stein of dark beer.  “Plenty of calories here!”

She rolled her eyes at me, and I relented.  “Hard boiled eggs and a salad when I went home to put the chickens up for the night.”

“Good girl.  And you?”

“Some kind of meat pie in the afternoon.”  He shrugged. “Not sure how old it was.”

“Julian Devorak, don’t put it past me to show up at your clinic and make you eat.  You're one of the few doctors I don't find to be an insufferable twit!" She probably could carry out the threat.  Artemis is nearly as tall as he is and at least five times more intimidating. She got up from the table and rearranged the scarf draped around her neck.  “Okay you two. I’m out. Back on call tomorrow morning.” Leaning over to kiss my cheek she whispered in my ear. “He's good for you.”

Julian lifted a hand to her in parting then settled back into the booth, working on his drink with the beginnings of a dark look in his gray eyes.  “I do not want to think about the morning.”

The morning.  I don’t like to think about mornings either.  The wagons do their rounds to cart the dead to the docks, to ferries that will take the bodies to mass graves on an island in the harbor.  And more people will wake to find their joints swelling and eyes turned red. Then the knocks on my door, at Julian’s clinic, looking for whatever little, insufficient help we have to offer them.  “Then let’s not.” I finished the rest of my beer and set the stein down harder that was truly necessary. I slid out of the both and extended my hand to him. "Another dance, Dr. Devorak?”

He was smiling when he looked up at me, and I knew for certain that I was lost.  That this was hopeless. I wanted to see that smile again and again. He curled his fingers around mine and levered himself off the bench.  "My dear, I was terribly afraid you wouldn't ask."

I pressed myself against him, face barely reaching his chest, when the dance allowed.  He smelled of liquor and medicinal herbs, and underneath that salt and the sea. The music slowed and his hands rested on my waist for a moment, then slipped just a little lower.  There was a question in his eyes when I looked up, and in response, I put my hands over his and shamelessly slid them even lower inviting him to curl his long fingers around my ass.  He looked lost for a moment, then lifted me up easily. I tossed my arms around his shoulders for balance, and he leaned his face close to my ear.

“What about him?”

Hands behind Julian's neck, I twisted the ring if Asra's that I still wore on my finger.

“Fuck him.  I love him.”  If my answer contradicted itself, I didn't care because both statements were true.  Asra had left me, and Julian was here. Here encouraging the work I wanted to do anyway, not trying to pull me away, convince me that I was too damaged, too mad, too sick in the head to make decisions for myself.  “But he doesn't own me. Never has.” I tangled my fingers in Julian's curly hair. “You, I like. Quite a bit.”

“I, um, like you too.”  He blushed. With color spreading across his pale cheeks, he’s adorable.  I slid along his body, as he sets me back down onto the floor. With my feet on the ground, the top of my head barely reached his sternum.  I took his arm and led him back to the table tucked in the back corner, where our almost empty drinks and my satchel have been reserving our spot.

He gestured to the barmaid for another round.  “So -” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Is this okay?”

In response I snuggled against him.  He's warm, and it's _nice_ to be held at the end of day that involved as much death as all the days now do.  “It's good even.”

The barmaid returned and set down another one of the awful cocktails Julian drinks and a tumbler with two fingers whiskey for me.  (It wasn't too atrocious if I got had a couple beers before switching over). As she walked away, she gave me a smile and conspiratorial wink.

Julian's forearm draped across my chest, heavy against my breast.  He tossed back half of his drink and looked down at me. “This probably isn't a good idea.”

I sipped my whiskey and imagined that it has something akin to layers of sweetness and smoke beneath the firey burn that coats my mouth.  It doesn't, but no matter. “Honestly, I'm not known for making good decisions.”

He laughed then scooped me up into his lap, another few inches closer to his pretty lips.  “I'm not either. Uh, known for good decisions."

“Well then.”  I set my drink back down on the table and curved one hand around his face.  “We'll make quite the feckless pair then.”

I didn't have to pull him down for a kiss.  Reading my intent, he leaned down to me. The first kiss was hesitant, close mouthed.  I pulled him back and worked my mouth around his bottom lip tracing it with my tongue, until his mouth was mine, and his hands were tight on my back, and a couple of the other patrons were cheering us on. 

He broke away, blushing again, biting his own lip.  “Maybe we should, uh, go take a walk?”

“I think that's a good idea.”

“Mmmm, me too.”

“Then maybe it's actually a bad one.  If you know, we both think it's good.”

He grinned.  “Do you care if it is?”

“No.”  I tossed back the rest of my whiskey, and he finished his drink.  We settled our tabs at the bar and left. I held on to Julian's arm in the street.  I was pleasantly buzzed, and I liked the feeling of him beside me.  

The water in the canal glinted red in the moonlight, a dilute version of the red that colored the eyes of those who caught, then succumbed to the plague.  Part of the reason the bars were doing such good business was because beer was far safer to drink at this point. Beer and rain water. The rich were bringing in barrels from the springs above the palace, but most of the city couldn’t afford to do so.  We stopped on a bridge over the canal and looked up at the moon.

“It doesn't seem right that the night sky is still so beautiful.”

Julian picked me up and sat me on the bridge railing.  “I'm glad it is. There might has well be something beautiful left.  Uh, other than you.”

“I'm not beautiful.”  Cute, yes. Pretty, maybe on a good day, but beautiful, no.

“I thought you were beautiful when first time I saw you.  Even with your hair tied under a bandana and eyes that hasn't slept in days.”

I had dozed some in the last week before Anna died, while I was trying desperately to keep her alive.  The night after the bonfire I fed almost everything in the apartment upsider to died down I passed out in the back room and slept for hours.  The hangover when I woke up only increased my desire to be dead as well. But that wasn’t a helpful line of thought. Not when I had something, someone far more pleasant to think about in front of me.  

“Hmph.  Flatterer.”  I wrapped my legs around his waist and leaned my head against his shoulder, trying to banish the memories - such as I had them - of those following days.  He embraced me back, clever hands untying the band that held my hair in a sensible braid and loosening it.

“I've been daydreaming for weeks about playing with your hair.”

I pressed a close mouthed kiss to the spot where his jaw and neck met and ran my fingers into his hair.  “Same.” Sitting on the railing, my face was level with his, the right height for kissing, and we did, until we were threatening to lose our balance and topple into the canal.

Julian's room above the clinic was closer.  He paused on the steps to rub Brundle's belly.  The dog kicked her back leg in delight, and gave me a baleful look when Julian's hand left her to tug me up the stairs after him.  In contrast to the orderly clinic downstairs, the room he slept in was a chaotic bachelor's nest, clothes tossed haphazardly over the backs of chairs, a perch set up near a partially open window for the raven that sometimes followed him around to land on.  The window was in a dormer, but half of the ceiling sloped down along with the roof. Well enough for someone short like me, but that meant he couldn't stand up straight in a decent portion of the space.

“It's not, um, much.”

“It's fine.  My shop is a disaster right now.  Well, not the shop, but I haven't put the upstairs back to rights yet.”  Everything had been scrubbed, multiple times, but the bedroom was still devoid of any soft surfaces: curtains, pillows, blankets, even the mattress - I had fed all those into a fire.  I was sleeping in backroom, nestled in a pile of cushions and blankets that smelled of cardamom and sandalwood and smokey tea - of Asra were I honest with myself.

He sat down on the bed and took my hands, pulling me to him.  “Is this still something you want to do? It's fine if -”

“Yes, but -”  The but surprised me.  I had had other lovers before, usually just someone from a bar for one or two nights.  Once - for several months while her ship was dry docked for repairs - a beautiful sailor with wild hair and hands that had an extra knack for tying knots.  But even then, it was just physical attraction, just sex, no emotional attachment. When the repairs were finished, we said goodbye, and she sailed away, and Asra had my full attention again.  But, this was . . . different, somehow. Confusing in a way I couldn't attribute to alcohol or stress.

“But what?”

“Maybe just keep to kissing tonight.  Hands are okay.”

He smiled up at me.  “That's fine. I don't want to do anything you don't.”

I climbed on top of him, straddling his hips.  “And you? Is this still a good bad idea, Julian?”

He got a strange look in his eyes.  “It's actually Ilya.”

“What?”

“My name.  I, uh, use Julian, here at least it sounds more normal here, in Vesuvia.  But Ilya is my given name.”

“Huh.  I like it.  Il-ya.”

He chuckled.  “Not quite. The connection between the first and last syllables is softer.”  He repeated it and I tried again, earning another laugh. “Closer.”

“I'll get it.”

“Mmm.”  He pressed his forehead against mine.  “I'm sure you will. Your tenacity is impressive.  And your name is curious. It's an, um, nickname at home.  But for a boy's name - Dmitri. You sure it's not short for anything?”

I shrugged.  “I'm pretty sure my parents just liked the way it sounded.  Or it was easy to yell when I was in trouble.”

“Oh, did you get in trouble a lot?”

“All the time.  Definite problem child.”  It wasn’t a lie; it just wasn’t a completely truthful answer to the question he meant.  I didn't get in trouble a lot when I was little. I was the dreamy kid in the corner reading a book, or digging clay out of the creek bank to mold into trinkets that I would lose hours painting.  I didn't become the problem child until later. Much later actually. And then I never figured out how to stop. “What about you? When did you start raising hell?”

“Oh, I was incorrigible as a child!  Drove my grannies and my sister to distraction.”

“That’s not hard to imagine.  And you were only worse as a teenager.”

“Absolutely.”  He pressed his forehead against mine, quiet for a moment.  “Then I had this brilliant - I mean it, uh, seemed brilliant at the time - idea to leave home.  Go see the world. Have an adventure or two. Too young to realize that I was too young.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen, give or take a couple months.  Decided I’d go become a soldier. Ended up with a group of mercenaries.  They didn’t ask too many questions. And I was tall for my age.”

I laughed.  “You're still tall for your age."

"And you're still short for yours, darling."  He did his hands from my waist to my back pressing me against him and easily tucking my head under his chin.

"Did you even know how to fight at seventeen?”

“I’ll have you know that I am perfectly competent with a sword.  But, I ended up as the company doctor’s assistant. He told me I was too damn young to be in battle.  I didn’t agree at the time, but well, he was right.”

“Seems to have worked out for you, Doctor.”  Seventeen didn't seem that young. I had left home for seventeen, but I left home for libraries and lectures, not for battle and blood.

“Hmm, yeah, well enough.  You’re not from Vesuvia either.  How’d you end up here?”

“My parents sent me.  To live with my aunt after -”  I stopped, breath catching in my throat, and rubbed at my scarred left arm.  “Well, that doesn’t matter.”

He ran his thumb over my cheekbone, and I was once again struck by just how kind his eyes are.  Not the eyes of anyone who was ever intended to be a soldier. I curled close against him again, head on his shoulder.  Catching the change in my mood - ever so observant, perceptive - he rubbed small, soothing circles on my back.

"I envy people who don't have things that they don't like to talk about."  He tangled his fingers in my hair. "You're beautiful whether you believe it or not, my dear."  

"I'm not usually like this."  At least, I'm not usually like this when I'm not depressed, and I can't afford to be depressed.  Not right now. When there's so much that needs to be done and Asra's gone and . . .

"Like what?”

"Scared of someone judging me.  Usually I just don't care."

"What makes me different?”

"I -"  I felt like I was seventeen again.  Away from home for the first time and terrified of being rejected as some naive farmer's daughter.  Or twenty two and sure that all anyone will see is a fuck up to stay away from or to pity. "I don't know.  But I -"

"Darling."  He pushed my hair back from my face and kissed my forehead.  "I'm also terrified that you'll get to know who I am and decide you don't like me."

"Really?"  I sat back on his knees and examined his face for any hint of mockery.

"Really."  He twined his fingers through mine, holding our hands between us.  "Terrified, mortified, petrified, stupefied." He kissed the back of my hands, first the left, then the right.  "So, um, should we be brave together and just see where this goes." He tilted his head dinner, biting his bottom lip as he does.  

I leaned forward and pressed my mouth to his.  "Yes. Let's."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading!
> 
> And yes, I did still "terrified, petrified, mortified, stupefied" from _A Beautiful Mind_.


	13. Gravitas. Hubris. Gravitas.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [this excellent song by Devotchka](https://youtu.be/mfPu1J7GYjg).

 

 _“Welcome my friends. Bienvenidos._ _Let's get on with the show!_

_Mes amis and mis amigos, b_ _aby, it's time to go._

_Why you want to rely on the drugas?_

_At least I know I'm alive._

_Anytime you want to use us -_ _It's the only way we survive._

_Oh, what is wrong with us?_

_Gravitas Hubris Gravitas_

_Oh, you sound so ruthless_

_When you say I'm not the man I used to be._

_Now you're scared of me.”_

_Devotchka, “Ruthless”_

 

**_Now._ **

I wake up to Julian’s fingers tracing figure eights on my hip and thigh.  He nuzzles my neck. “Good morning, my dear.” I hum happily and roll over onto my back, stretching my arms above my head.  

“Morning.”  I yawn and toss an arm over my eyes.  “How late is it?”

“Mid morning.  I didn’t want to wake you.”  He head dips down, lips pressing against my collarbone.  “I did make some coffee.” He sits up and pushes his hair out of his face, suddenly looking concerned.  “Do you drink coffee? I could make tea, if you don’t drink coffee.”

I smile at the thought that he’s actually worried that I don’t like coffee.  “I do.” He turns to the side as I sit up and rub the sleep out of my eyes. He turns back with a mug in his hands.  His expression is almost shy as he passes it to me. I take the cup from him with a grin. It’s barely warm in my hands, and the liquid within is nearly cold.  “How long have you been watching me sleep?”

“Not sure.”  His hand slides along my thigh, and he kisses my shoulder.  Whether reassuring himself or me, or maybe both of us, that last night wasn’t a one off.  “You’re cute when you sleep.”

“Mmmm . . . sure.”  I drink some more of the coffee and lean my head against his arm.  "I was drooling, I bet."

"Still adorable.  So, um, what do you have to do today?”

"Schedule is terribly full, I'm afraid.  Got to prove a really stubborn man innocent."

"Hmm, I, uh, don't suppose you'd need to spend any time with him to do that."  He shifts around to sit behind me, and I let my head fall back on his chest as his arms wrap around me.

"I suppose that couldn't hurt.  Especially if he'd be a little more helpful."

Fingertips creep up my stomach curling around one breast as his lips find the side of my neck.  "I'm sure I can help you with _something_."

I find a flat surface for the coffee before we can manage to spill it; although, as lukewarm as it is, that wouldn't be a disaster so much as an unwelcome distraction.  "And what would that something be?”

"Mmmm... Whatever will please you.  Anything."

I twist around as he leans back, until I’m laying flat against him, mouth pressed to his neck.  His hands slid up the back of my thighs, pushing aside the shirt. “I can think of a few things that would please me.”

* * *

The backyard of the house is tiny but tidy, enclosed by a stone wall and surrounded by fruit trees.  Julian's and my clothes from the prior day are strung on a line, drying in the sun. Nearby there's a pump for water and a half barrel that looks conveniently placed for the purposes of laundry.  For that matter, I think another quick rinse would do me good. And the trees seem to create enough privacy.

I drop the sheets in a pile beside the half barrel and begin pulling water into the barrel.  Julian takes behind for a moment then takes over the pump, filling the half barrel far quicker than I could have managed on my own.

I snag one of the towels from last night off the line before stripping off the oversized shirt and stepping into the cool water.  A quick tock from my hand warms it a bit, and I kneel down. Julian is leaning against one of the posts holding up the clothesline and grinning from ear to ear.  I roll my eyes and scoop up a double handful of water, tossing it into the air and giving it a little push of magic to make sure it hits his face. He sputters and curses while I splash my own face with water and rinse off after last night's escapades.  It's quick work. I'm out of the barrel and wrapped in a towel before Julian has fully ceased his dramatics over the water I flung at him.

"What was that for?”

"Fun."  I pick up the pile of sheets and dump them into the tub, then step back in.  Much easier to do the scrubbing with my feet rather than my hands. "And you were leering.  Lech."

"I was not."  He's smiling again.  I want to stop what I'm doing to kiss those lips that are curved just so.  "Just admiring."

"Sure..."  I kick the sheets around, letting the suds work through the fabric, one hand holding the towel close around me.

"And what's this?"  He gives me a curious look and starts taking down our shirts from the line, folding them loosely as he goes.  "Some kind of magician thing."

"Nope.  Just a lot easier than doing the washing by hand."

I work the sheets to the point that they should be clean, and with Julian's help dump the soapy water out and give the fabric a double rinse.  I let him hang out the sopping wet sheets while I pull back on my clothes. Then, with a sly smile, I touch the fabric and work a spell that dried them immediately.  

He looks annoyed for a moment.  "Why didn't you just do that to start with?”

"It doesn't work as well if everything's crumpled together into one big sodden pile.  And the sun will still bleach them a bit." I hadn't come across any spells that would handle every step of the laundry and certainly none that quite replicated the smell of sheets that had been allowed to hang in the sun and breeze for a few hours.  I trace my fingers down his bare chest. Even with the sun high in the sky, it’s too early for him to bother with buttons. “Any chance of some more coffee?”

“Oh, there’s always a chance for more coffee.”

 

Mazelinka’s kitchen doesn’t have a traditional stove.  Julian kneels by the hearth for a few minutes, humming to himself while he brings water and coffee grounds to a boil three times in a tiny bronze pot.  He pours the liquid off into two tiny cups and settles onto the bench next to me. “One place I visited had these contraptions that forced water through the coffee at high pressure.  Amazing stuff. Going to have to try to build one someday.”

I blow on the coffee and take a sip before setting it back down to cool.  “This is good though.”

“Brewing a good cup of coffee - necessary life skill.  At least for me.” He stretches, back cracking as he arches it.  "Maz did leave us - well, uh, me - an errand."

"And that errand would be?”  I take another sip of the rich coffee.  I can feel my pulse thrumming behind my ears, whether from the coffee or from Julian isn’t clear.

"Dropping this off to a contact."  He takes a package wrapped in brown paper from the table and juggles it from hand to hand before tucking it away in his coat.

"Sounds fun.”

"Umm, yeah, sketchy place really.  You should probably just head back to the palace -"

"No.  Seriously.  Sounds fun."  Besides, somewhere sketchy sounds like just the place to overhear rumors about the Count's death that the Countess's agents might have missed.

"It's not the safest place."

I shrug and have another drink.  "I'm not entirely helpless." Asra had taught me several defensive spells before he left me for the first time.  At least he had wanted to increase the chances that I was still alive when he got back. Better than no concern at all, I suppose.

* * *

The sketchy side of town isn’t _that_ sketchy.  It’s more run down than the neighborhood Asra and I live in, but nothing about the crumbling buildings feels particularly threatening.  Children play in the street, watched from windows by grandparents. Julian stops at a stall advertising fine tobacco. He exchanges a few words with the owner of the stall, then trades the wrapped packages from Mazelinka.  He laughs at some joke and turns back, wrapping an arm around my shoulders as he pulls me back out into the street. “Smoke?” He offers me a hand rolled cigarette. “These are just tobacco, not any of the, um, backroom goods, but he claims it’s a particularly nice leaf.”

“Sure.”  I take one from him and pause to summon tiny flame above my fingertips to light it.  He raises an eyebrow, then returns a packet of matches back to a pocket in his jacket before leaning down to lit his off mine.  It is a good smoke, sweet and lightweight, and I mentally bookmark the shop in my head.

“Where to next, boss?”

“Mind stopping my shop?”  I know my shirt is clean, but Mazelinka was right that there wasn’t much to be done about the bloodstain.  A clean one would be welcome. And I still haven’t figured out how I ended up with my tarot deck instead of Asra’s the other night.  I’d like to know if his had reappeared where mine should have been.

“Works for me.”  

While we walk, he keeps a hand in contact with me as much as possible, touching my shoulder or the small of my back.  I pause in front a stall selling trinkets and charms. They aren’t quite like any that I’ve seen in the market near my house.  These are deceptively simple glass, but they shimmer with colors captured in perichoresis, blending and flowing into each other.  Asra would love them. I dig in my bag for a coin and trade it to the shopkeep for one that ripples between violet and lavender.  

When I turn back Julian is staring at an announcement recently pasted to the wall of a building.  It’s a rough sketch of him, with a price listed for his capture. My breath catches in my throat. At least it’s for his live capture.  Not much reassurance there.  

“Huh, I wouldn’t have thought I was worth that much.”

“Nadia didn’t say anything about this.”

A passer by stops and peers at the poster.  They wink at Julian, then step past us, rip the poster from the wall and tear it into several pieces.  “Bit of an eyesore,” they comment. “And I can think of several hundred better uses for five thousand soldi if the Countess actually wants to help the city.”

“We better get back to my shop, I think.”  I suspect that the larger part of the city population will respond in a similar way as that passer by, but the sum is twice what the shop has ever earned in a year according to the ledgers I had gone through.  Someone will be tempted.

“Yeah, uh, that’s a good idea.”

I pause to cast a quick glamour, a simple one that I can keep up for a time, just darkening his hair a few shades to a nondescript brown, and nudge Julian so that he’s walking closer to the building, even if as short as I am, I’m not much of a visual block for his height.  We walk at a quick clip, ignoring the other stalls in the market. Julian turns off the main avenue and down a side street, clearly intending to avoid foot traffic.

It’s a mistake.  Two heavy bodies knock into us, shoving Julian into an alley.  Julian catches his balance and pulls a knife from his boot with a single fluid motion.  One of the men faces him, a short sword drawn. The other grabs me, twisting one arm behind my back and holding me against him.

“It’d probably be best if you just come with us, Dr. Devorak.”  His breath smells of stale beer. I can feel a sharp prick at the base of my throat, distracting me for a moment from the painful tension in the arm twisted behind my back.  Julian unclenches fists, dropping the knife his held and lowering his hands.

"Hands on the wall," the second one instructs.  Julian starts to turn, all too ready to give up.  I'm not sure that his resignation is entirely about keeping me safe either.  No matter. I don't really need to be kept safe.  

I turn the wrist my captor is holding sharply, flattening my palm against his torso and pushing a crackling wave of energy into him, mentally thanking Asra for teaching me that spell as I do.  He convulses with a shout, and I twist out of his grasp. There's a sting along the base of my throat from the knife, but it's nothing more than a scratch. He collapses to his knees, arms around his chest.

Julian takes advantage of the distraction to spin around on his toes and land a solid punch the second man's face.  He singles backwards into a wall. Julian bolts forward, grabbing my arm and pulling me out of the alley and down the street.  A few blocks later, we duck into another alley.

Julian's eyes widen when he sees the blood at the base of my neck.  He strips off a glove before I can protest and touches my throat, the mark of his own flaring as he does.  A line if red, truly no more than a scratch, appears on his neck.

"Julian, you didn't need -"

He shushes me, then pulls me close against him as he leans back against the wall, whispering breathlessly into my hair.  “You’re alright. You’re alive.” He runs his bare hand through my hair. The superficial cut heals over quickly, but not before adding yet another bloodstain to his shirt.  "You got hurt because you were walking with me."

“Julian . . .”

“You’re okay.”

“I’m fine.  Ilya, I’m okay.”  I pull away from him.  Just enough that I can cradle his face in my hands and look into his eyes.  “I’m alright. Let’s go.” I adjust his jacket to cover as much of the blood as I can.  “My shop.”

* * *

The wards of the door of my shop are untouched when we make it there.  I undo them quickly and push Julian inside. His grey eyes are dazed, refusing to quite come into focus.  “Julian. Look at me.” His eyebrows are pinched together with anxiety when he turns his face to me. “You’re safe.  I’m safe.” At least for the moment. Nadia hadn’t said anything to indicate that she was considering placing a bounty on Julian.  Had one of the courtiers swayed her? Valerius wouldn’t have been interested in the additional uproar a bounty would cause, but someone within that court was interested in creating a show.  But right now, my concern for Julian is rather more personal. “Come on, upstairs. I’ll make some tea, and we can both get cleaned up.”

I coax Julian into settling into a chair and start a kettle of water for tea.  I could use magic to heat the water, but that’s another thing that can’t be done well with magic.  It doesn’t taste at all the same as tea made from water that was allowed to come to a boil naturally.  That done, I dampen a rag and sit across from Julian. He lifts his head as I push aside his shirt and begin dabbing away the thin line of dried blood.  His fingers wrap around mine. “I’m sorry.” 

“For what?”

His shoulders roll as he exhales.  “Getting you involved in this.”

“I hardly think you’re responsible for that.  Blame the Countess. Or Asra for leaving me unsupervised.”

“I could - I should just turn myself in.”

“Not until we’ve figured out what actually happened.”  The Countess might honestly desire to know the full truth, but it would be all too human to accept the easy out that Julian turning himself in would provide.  And whoever had placed that bounty was clearly motivated to ensure that blame fell on Julian. The kettle interrupts my thoughts with a whistle. I pour the water of the tea leaves and set the pot and a mug on the table beside Julian.  “I’m going to change into clean clothes.” I run my hand through his hair and press a quick kiss to his forehead. “And find a shirt for you. I think we’ve got one or two that might fit you.”

I strip out of the clothes I’m wearing and toss them into one the piles on the floor that I think is dirty laundry.  I rummage through my drawer settling on a dark pair of pants and a striped linen tunic that I think Asra wore last. But it fits me well enough, and I like the colors.  A few plain white shirts that are too large for either of us have been shoved into the back corner of the bottom drawer for years. I shake both out on the bed and then grab the one that appears less wrinkled before stepping back into the kitchen.       

“Hey, I found this shirt that looks like -  Julian, where are you going?"  

"I . . . You, you see."  He picks his foot up from the top of the stairs and turns to me.  His hands drop helplessly to his sides. "This is the second time you've ended up bleeding.  In less than a day. It's dangerous to be around - I'm dangerous to be around."

"This is also the second time you've healed me.  In less than a day." 

"Still -"

I cut him off and hold the shirt up to his shoulders.  It's similar to the one he's wearing, a bit closer cut in the sleeves, and unlike his current one, free of knife stabs and blood stains. "I think this will fit you.  Actually -" I wink, trying to distract him. "I think it might even be yours."  

"Heh."  He smiles for a moment then takes the shirt from me and shakes it out.  "Must have left it here in another life. I'm surprised Asra kept it."

"Really?  I don't think he's ever let anything go."

Julian smiles wistfully.  "He wasn't awful all the time.  He's just . . ."

". . . Complicated.  Or at least he makes everything crooked and confused."

"That's one way to put it."  Julian changes shirts and sits down at the table.  "Last night you, um, you said you only remember the past three years...  Have you been with Asra for all of those?”

"He's the first person I remember."  It's hazy, but I can hear Asra's desperate voice calling my name and feel his hand pushing the hair out of my eyes.  His voice, his hands were anchors against the smoke that threatened to swallow me back. "Something happened. Something bad.  I've been sick - confused - since. For a few weeks at a time. Here and there. Maybe it was like that, but worse."

"I don't want another bad thing to happen to you.  Not this . . ." His voice trails off and his eyebrows furrow, as if there’s something else, but he can’t quite put it into words.  I cup his face in my hands and smooth my thumbs over his eyebrows. He looks up at me, expression pained for a moment, then smiles. “Want to go find some food?  There’s a tea shop around here that I always liked.”

* * *

Julian is uncharacteristically quiet as we walk through the streets.  Like before, he's greeted multiple times, but now his responses are muted.  Glum even. He manages a grin when a little boy, maybe nine or ten, appears with wooden sword and declares dramatically that he's here to protect us.  Word seems to have gotten around and it appears the majority of the city doesn't intend to allow anyone to collect the bounty on Julian's head.

The boy follows us for two blocks before Julian solemnly thanks him, ruffles his hair, and tells him to go home to his mother.

"Would you be treated like that if you were a bad man?"

Julian turns down an alley.  "A bad man who kills a bad man doesn't become a good man."  He pauses by an unmarked door, rubbing his hands together nervously.  "This was a real underground place. High ceilings, cozy booths. Good place to talk.  And we, um, we need to talk."

"Jul-”

He takes my hand and leads me down a hallway that seems dusty even for a clandestine tea shop, but otherwise ignores me and continues to muse to me, or to himself, it isn't clear.  "Used to come here to get away from the palace. Nice and quiet. People didn't bother you." Just as he's speaking of quiet, the sounds of applause carries down the corridor from further in the building.  The door he pushes open leads not to a tea room but into some sort of storage space or costume shop. He gave back at me, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Well, uh, things may have changed a bit over the past few years."

There's a motley collection of brightly colored outfits hanging on a rack and a pile of blunted metal weaponry signed into a barrel.  Masks cover the walls, staring with hollow eyes. "Quite a bit of change, I think."

"Pity.  They had this one smoky tea that I've never found since."  Julian steps further into the room, running his fingers over the masks on the wall.  "Oho. What have we here?” He lifts a narrow, curving mask from the wall and holds it over his face for a second before hiding it behind his back.  "Sorry. I forget, um, I know you don't care for . . ."

"It's okay."  The mask is clearly intended to suggest the ones the plague doctors wore, but it's so stylized that I don't fear any dread twisting in my stomach.  "Try it on."

He pushes his hair back and fixes the mask over his face.  It looks good on him, the gold detailing over black paint compliments his outfit.  "What do you think? Dashing?”

"Oh, very!”  I push him back against the wall and lift myself up on my toes.  "Bit hard to kiss in one of these." My teeth find his throat anyway.  Moaning, he wraps an arm around my back, holding me choose and lifting me just a touch higher.

"Imagine . . . Oh, yeah, that's . . .  Leave a mark if you want. Something to remember you..."  

I pause one hard buried in his hair and the other grasping the back of his jacket.  "Julian, you don't have to -”

He clears his throat trying to recover.  "I don't, I. Never, um, nevermind that. Imagine trying to kiss with both people wearing one."

"Mmm . . ."  I'll play along.  Maybe if he delays long enough, he'll talk himself out of this notion that he’s too dangerous for me to be around. "You'd have to get creative."

Any creativity is interrupted by a door swinging open.  A man dressed all in black grabs Julian and shouts. "There you are!  You're about to miss your cue!" He catches a glimpse of me over Julian's shoulder and pauses.  "Who is - nevermind, come on, big finale time."

He hustles Julian mask and all down a darkened hallway.  There’s no threat in the man’s voice, just exasperation. Who does he think Julian is?  The hallway opens into a cavernous space, cut across by a heavy curtain. Beyond the curtain I can hear a crowd laughing aloud and a single wailing voice projecting over all of them.  

“Listen to them!  Partying without me!  On my birthday even!”

I keep to the shadows, creeping alongside the curtain until I can just peer out to the stage beyond.  A man in scarlet robes and a white half mask, exaggerated mascara weeping around the eyes sprawls on an elaborate daybed, a bulky golden arm tossed over the back.  “Ingrates! What do they expect me to do all night? Clomp around in my hooves? Boots! I mean, boots! Beg the busboy for table scraps? If I can’t disgust anyone while doing it, what’s the point?”

The man in black, a stage manager I suppose, tosses a cape around Julian’s shoulders and shoves him past the curtain.  Julian stumbles through, almost catches himself, then trips over his own feet and into the lap of the thespian portraying the count.  The gathered crowd breaks into cheers and applause. There’s the briefest of pauses from the actor and then he raises his hands in delight.  “Doctor Devorak! Here to cure my boredom!”

Julian looks from side to side, but his face is still hidden behind the mask, and well, Artemis had used drama queen to describe him.  His posture shifts as he decides to go for it, rubbing his hands together and cackling. “Hello my poor, poor patient. The bell tolls for you tonight! I’ve come to end your suffering.  Enjoy that gasp, it will be your last.”

“What are you going to do, Jules?”  The actor playing Lucio reaches out with his gold foil covered arm and lifts Julian’s chin.  “Smother me with your thighs?”

“For the hundredth time -”  Julian turns from the count, rolling his shoulders in place of the eyes that can’t been seen beneath his mask.  He snaps back to the other actor and grabs his shoulders. “NO!” 

They tussle on the daybed to the delight of the gathered crowd.  The theater is small, but packed for a matinee. Mocking the Count appears to be a continued delight in this part of the city.  Feathers fly as a pillow is destroyed. The actor reaches behind him and pulls out a foil blade. Julian leaps backward. "Ah! It's a fight you want!  Then -” He stops and looks at his empty hands. A stagehand appears with a second foil sword. Julian accepts it with a deep bow and turns back to the actor.  "It's a fight you'll get!"

The two of them spar, playfully bouncing around the stage.  How long will Julian keep this up? And will anyone recognize him under the mask?  It might not matter if they did. The crowd hardly sympathized with the character of the Count.  

The Count staggers back under Julian's blows and falls against the daybed, flinging an arm over his eyes.  Julian looms over him, fair sword pointed at his throat. Julian's body is coiled and trembling with menace that I'm not sure is entirely feigned.  

"Any last words, Lucio?"    

"Jules, Jules, you know I like you better than the rest.  We've always been friends, right?" The actor's voice quavers and rises in pitch to a whine.  "And I'm generous. Especially with my friends. What is it you want? A ship? Riches?”

Julian leans closer, voice pitched low.  “Some of us don’t kill for money, you damn mercenary.  Some of us kill to make up for not doing it sooner.” With a sharp thrust, he plunges the sword, just to the side of the actor's neck.  As the actor gasps his way through drawn out death throes, Julian looks to where I'm standing just off stage. Behind the mask his eyes are wide and wild, gone just a bit too far into the moment.  He straightens up slowly, gaze shifting to the sword in his hand. I think he might have forgotten that it's fake.

A second actor stumbles onto the other side of the stage.  He clutches an oversized wine goblet and his mask is contorted into a sneer.  Valerius. A portrayal that I can't imagine the Consul would care to recognize himself in.  He shambles across the stage with exaggerated drunkenness, and then stops sort. "Devorak! You...  Murderer! Guards!”

The shout seems to break Julian out of his spell.  He turns to face the audience and bows with a grand flourish before running off the stage.  He laughs aloud as he peels off his mask and loops his arm through mine, pulling me down a hallway before anyone can question us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That took longer than I expected...  
> Sorry about the unannounced hiatus. Life happened. Then brain chemistry happened.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Psst... there's a [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6KYGCtanlUMyn2u1Ow4vTZ?si=QRaNGgsrSVm-T9ez8HEwOg) for this. I can't write without music.


	14. Looks in Need of Sleep that Doesn't Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Depeche Mode, 'Barrel of a Gun'

 

In the street, I cast another minor glamour on Julian.  Anyone glancing at him will see someone barely taller than I am.  _That_ should do well enough as a disguise, even if I do say so myself.  Julian speaks rapidly, gesticulating in the air as he does, about how it’s been ages since he was on a stage, and it’s so exhilarating.  

“I don’t think anyone recognized me, not with the mask.  Oh that was - something else! I’m still a foot in the meta realm, I swear!”

“Had fun?”

“Well, um.”  He runs a hand through his hair, momentarily displacing his eye patch.  He has it back in place before I can get a glance at any scars it might be hiding.  “I don’t know if fun is quite the right word. It’s not, that is, I don’t remember killing Lucio.  What I said in there, on stage. Ugh.” He stops and takes my hands in his. “Dema, are you hungry?  Let me buy you dinner. At the Raven. And then, darling mine, we do need to talk.”

When we enter the Raven, the barkeep looks up from drying glasses and smiles when he sees Julian.  “I thought you might be here tonight. Set aside a back table for you, view of the door and a straight shot out through the kitchen.”

“Good of you, Barth.  I don’t suppose you’ve heard -”

He holds up a finger to warn off the question Julian is about to ask.  “I take a long view in business. You're worth far more to me alive and drinking.  I'll make three times that reward off your tab before all is said and done." A caw from the rafters indicates that there’s an additional lookout present again.  Barth chuckles. “Besides, I hear a certain pirate queen has made it clear that anyone who collects that reward won't live long enough to enjoy it.”

Julian runs a hand through his hair.  “A certain pirate queen is supposed to be in retirement.”

Barth snorts dismissively.  “Go sit yourself down. Wife’s made a pot roast for the dinner rush.  Usual drinks for the two of you?”

I set aside my own questions about how I have a usual drink in a tavern I've visited all of three times now, and follow Julian to the table Barth indicated.  The raven spirals down to his shoulder and preens his hair. Julian lifts a hand and strokes the bird’s head. “Thanks, Malak.”

“He has a name?”

“I couldn’t just keep calling him pest.  Would have been a bit rude. He’s been following me around for years after all.  Comes and goes as he pleases but puts up with me.” The bird grumbles and puffs up his feathers.  He launches himself off Julian’s shoulder as Barth approaches with two drinks. Another nasty looking cocktail for Julian and a stein of the dark beer that appears to be my historically favored drink.  Julian nods his thanks as the man retreats behind his counter.  

Julian swallows most of his cocktail in a single gulp, and I take a sip of my beer.  “I wish I knew why Nadia suddenly decided to offer a bounty.”

“I want to know why I’m only valuable alive.  I mean, uh, if she’s just going to hang me.”

“That’s her plan to start the masquerade.”

Julian chokes and not, I suspect, solely from disgusting combination of liquors in his beverage.  “What? That doesn’t sound like her. Not at all. She hated public executions. Specifically Lucio’s taste for gladiatorial combat, but she didn't care from carrying out any punishment publicly.  Barbaric. Or so she called it back then."  

"Did you know her?  Before."

"The Countess?"  He pauses and frowns, drawing out his response.  "Yes. Better than most, I suppose."

"What's your opinion of her?”

"Nadia?"  His lips curve into a fond smile, devoid of any irony.  "Oh, if she really believes I murdered Lucio, she'll hang me alright.  Nothing personal. Just getting things done. She likes getting things done.  And she's clever - very, very clever. She almost had a way figured out the rework the aqueduct system and bring in water from higher in the mountains.  We, um, thought it might have been pure, free from the plague's taint. I was helping some. Checking her calculations mostly, not that she needed me too.  But it's hard to do much of anything with Lucio in the way."

"Would she have removed him herself?”

Julian guess silent and gnaws on his bottom lip.  He looks distressed at the idea. "I, well, I'll admit I could see her taking matters into her own hands.  But I can't see her pinning it on someone else. Not unless she knew for a fact that they had done something they should swing for.  Maybe not even then."

We’re interrupted by the appearance of Barth’s wife who slides a plate in front of each of us and ruffles Julian’s hair warmly before disappearing again.  Reward or no, I get the feeling that Julian is perfectly safe within this establishment. Probably most of the city.  

"I don’t know,” Julian continues with a sigh.  “Maybe Valerius got frustrated and posted the reward."  He holds his drink with his pinky extended and fixes his features into a perfect mimicry of the Consul's unimpressed and pretentious expression, matching it with Valerius's overly measured intonation.  "Countess, card tricks and crystal balls are not acceptable methods of investigation."

I laugh at his impression then fold my hands beneath my chin and smirk across the table.  "Ah, but, Valerius doesn't think you're the culprit."

Julian rubs at the back of his left hand and raises his eyebrows in surprise.  "Bit late for that, don't you think." He shrugs, a surprisingly good natured grin spreading across his face, as he picks up fork and pokes at his food.  "Eh, I'll cut him some slack. The circumstantial evidence was not and is not in my favor. And he was, um, a bit _distraught_ at the time.  Understandable, really.  Given that Lucio was burning alive in front of him."

"He and Lucio . . .?"

"Yes.  Very much, yes.  As much as Valerius hated to admit it.  But he, uh, he really doesn't think that I'm the culprit now?"

"I think his words were something along the line of not able to willingly hurt a person."

"Hmm, that's kinder than what I would have expected from him.  Valerius is the only person involved that I'm pretty sure didn't do it."

"He told me something interesting about you."

Julian’s eyebrows lift.  "Oh did he now?”

"He said that you knew Lucio longer and better than most.  Better than the Countess.”

"Well, I've known Lucio longer than he's been Lucio.  How well I know him . . . I suppose he wasn't that hard of a man to know, if you're only willing to pay attention."

"Attention?"

"Yeah.  People thought he wanted all eyes on him.  He _thought_ he wanted all eyes on him.  He didn't. All that flash and bang?  Just something to hide behind. And very, very few people looked behind it.  He never wanted to look behind it. But perhaps that isn’t so odd. It’s a terrifying thing.  Looking at your actual self." He pushes his food around the plate. “But enough of that. Lucio is dead.  That much, at least, seems to be a fact. Whatever else anyone did or didn’t do.”

“What about Valdemar?”

Julian’s entire body stiffens at that name.  The muscles in his jaw twitch and his drops his fork.  "Yes. How do you -?”

"I've met them."

"You've met them?"  His eyes widen and he leans across the table, bringing his face closer to mine.  "Are you alright? They're - they're the kind of person I want to keep you away from."

I ignore his protests.  "Valerius told me they were the head of research during the plague."

"If you can call that research."  He’s somehow managed to go even paler.

"Julian, what happened?”

"Don't want to think too much about it."  He taps his forehead. "If I think about it, I might remember it."

“Julian!  I need you to remember something.”

“No.”  He covers his face with his hands.  “You need to be far away from this. From me.  You’re only going to get hurt.”

“I’m involved already!”

He groans and looks at me through his fingers.  “This is a nightmare.”

I wrap my fingers around his wrists.  “It doesn’t have to be.”

“Dema.”  His eyebrows are knitted together in pain.  “We have to - I can’t - that is, I want. Ugh.”  He pulls his hands free of mine and stands before fishing a couple of coins from his sash and dropping them on the table.  His appetite having clearly fled at the mention of Valdemar. “Walk with me.”

Outside the light is dim enough that I don’t bother to cast any glamour on Julian.  Besides, this neighborhood doesn’t seem to be in any rush to turn him over to the palace guard.  He loops a long arm around my waist, matching his much longer paces carefully to mine and leads me through a maze of ever narrower streets.  He silent as we walk, and I say nothing. It’s clear enough where his thoughts are heading, and I haven’t figured out how to stop them yet. For a moment, I think that we’re headed for the docks, but he turns sharply onto a tiny path that leads up a rocky outcropping.  He pauses at the top and carefully checks between two rock formations before extending his hand to me again. “Path’s still here. My memories of the plague are confused, but it was bad.” He starts rambling as we pick our way down the narrow path. “Really bad. They’d closed down the port, so the plague couldn’t get out, but that also meant there wasn’t anything getting in.  Medicine. Food. You might hear people grousing about the palace being drunk while the city was starving, but to be honest, that’s because the wine cellar there ran deeper than the larder. But Maz could always get things in. Only real supply line I had. Used to meet her at this cove when the moon was dark. At lot like tonight. Came here to think too, sometimes. When I needed real quiet.”

The stars in the sky seem more brilliant with the majority of the city lights blocked.  With no sound other than the crashing waves, it would be a good place to think. I sit down in the sand, knees pulled up against my chest.  Julian settles behind me, legs on either side of mine. He wraps his arms around me and tucks his chin over the top of my head. To the north, I can just barely see the torches lighting the city docks, but here the only illumination is faint glow from the waxing moon. 

"We can't keep this up.  The longer you're around me the more danger you're in."

"I don't feel like I'm in danger."  Sitting here with Julian's back warm against my chest and his arms caging me, I feel like the pieces of my world are falling back into place, despite everything outside seeming to fall apart.     

Julian sighs heavily and pulls me even tighter to him.  “I don’t actually want to, I really don’t want to end this.”

“Then don’t.”

“I’m a disaster about to happen, Dema, and I don’t want that disaster to happen to you too.  I’ve done the calculations. Run through every possible scenario, over and over. There’s only one way I see this whole thing playing out, and it’s not a happy ending, trust me.  Isn’t it best to cut things off at the pass - to spare you the trouble of a tragic ending.” His body tenses up more than it already, curling around me in defiance of his words.

His words remind me of Asra.  Asra leaving me behind again and again, forever protesting that wherever he's going is too dangerous for me or protesting that if he answers my questions, I'll only be hurt.  That he can't stand to take that chance. My temper flares. I twist out of Julian's embrace, turning to glare at him. “Shouldn’t I have some say in how much trouble and tragedy I can manage?”

His gaze is forlorn.  “I just, I just can’t let you subject yourself to the damage that I can do.  That I _will_ do.”

“You’re insufferable.”  I scramble to my feet with a hiss and start back for the narrow path up the cliff.

Julian waits until we're reached the top before speaking again.  "I'd, um, rather you be angry at me and alive than dead."

"I'm not going to stop trying to prove to the Countess that you're innocent."

"Don't.  Please. Just keep your head down.  Tell Nadia you've decided not to help her."   Julian is a dark silhouette against the night sky.  His shoulders are hunched, suggesting that he wants nothing more than to disappear into the ocean beneath us.  “I’ll, um, walk you back to your shop. If you want, that is, but I’d feel better about it if you let me.”

I start for the shop without waiting for him.  He walks behind me, then beside me, like he can’t figure out where he actually should be, where he is allowed to be now.  At a torch lit corner he grabs my hand, pulling me to a stop. “I, I, this, this will drive me mad, knowing you’re there, no, you’re here.  But it’s for the best, I’ll only end up hurting you.” He looks away from me. “Worse, that is.”

“I’m not afraid of pain.”

“I’m only trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need to be protected.”

“It’s all I can offer you!”  He tugs at his hair in frustration.  “I’m not a good man, Dema. The things I’ve done... I must have done something unforgivable.  Where else does this ache pit in my stomach come from?”

“Probably from not eating enough and drinking too much.”  I intend for the comment to be snarky, but it comes out sounding concerned instead.  I reach up and touch his face. He leans into my palm before snapping upright and away from my hand.

“I won’t, that is, don’t, you shouldn’t come down this path with me.  You deserve better than that.” His expression is entirely forlorn. The urge to pull him into an embrace is as strong as my desire to shove him into the wall.  We’ve been at this impasse before, in some past that we’ve both forgotten.

“Do you want me, Julian?”

“That’s a strange question, isn’t it?”

“I’m a fortune teller, Julian.  I can sense when there is meaning beneath the words actually spoken.”

“I . . . ”  He pulls back from my touch as if it burns him, and for a moment, I am afraid that he will run away.  “I want you to be safe. I want you to stay out of this whole mess. I want . . . It doesn’t matter what I want.  I stole a night or two from time, with you. And I’m scared to press my luck any further.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Tenacious, aren’t you?  It’s one of the things I like about you.  You’re like this great bright light, drawing me towards you.  I just can’t help myself.” A moth to the flame, ever headed toward destruction.  What happened to make him think that life would always end in tragedy? I’m working through the implications of his comparison, when he admits, softly,  “I want you. I know it's only been a short time, but I feel like I’ve known you for years. Is it because you put me at ease? That’s hard to do.”  

I feel a strange reassurance from his words.  If we both feel that this has been longer than it actually has, more than two nights of frivolous debauchery, perhaps there was some connection in the past, perhaps something to be had in the future. 

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he continues.  “That’s the problem. I’m torn in two, Dema. My brain tells me to leave, but my heart wants to stay.”  He looks up, staring at the torch then at the moon beyond it. “If I think about it . . . I can see the path our story would take.  So why?” He slumps against the wall, then grabs my hand and pulls me toward him, wrapping me into his ridiculous overcoat. “Are you cold? You must be cold?”  It’s a warm night, and I’m not cold at all, but I humor his aside. Besides, I want the closeness, his hand around my shoulders and the comfort it entails. “If I walk away from you now, will I stay away?  If I drop my guard, will I find myself walking right back to you? That’s what makes me selfish. Because whatever we could have, whatever possibilities they’ll only lead to ruin. That’s the kind of man I am.  Even if you prove I'm innocent. There’s no future for us that doesn’t end in pain for you.”

“What future do you want?”

“I’ve told you, it doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Can’t you see anything but tragedy?”

“It’s what will happen.  In this world, we don’t get what we want.  Why waste time imagining something you can’t have?  I don’t dare hope. It just makes it hurt more when you don’t get it.”

“. . . Try.  Please. For me.”  I hate how pitiful my voice sounds.

He laughs darkly.  “What do you want to hear from me?  That I want a future? That I want to live?  That I want something with you?” He pulls away from and begins to pace in the torchlight.  “Right now - right now, I do. And with you, perhaps always something with you. But you don’t understand, I try to run from it.  This darkness that has always surrounded me. Always convincing myself that if I'm just quick enough, if I can just do something - anything - to merit an escape, it won't catch me again.  But always, always the darkness returns and, and the despair that comes with it, and maybe you won’t be enough then for me to still want this life. We could run, like you said, but it'll hound me to the other end of the world, even if it doesn't catch me here.”  His voice trails off as he steps outside of the circle of light. I follow him, hand outstretched, but not touching him, not yet. He draws his hands up, shielding his face from my gaze. “I can see a future with you when I close my eyes, but I know that it’s an illusion, that fate will overpower anything bright.  And maybe you as well. So, if I end it now, you’ll survive, Dema. You were fine before I got here. You’ll be fine after I’ve left.” He shakes his head and pauses, breathing deliberately for a moment. The pathos in his voice, when he talks about ending it, ending it now scares me. I want to believe he's only speaking ending whatever there is between us, but . . .

"Julian -”

He catches my hand in his, cutting off anything I might say.  “Please, Dema, let me walk you home now.”

I clutch his hand tight in mine for the few remaining blocks back to the shop.  He leaves me at the door with a hesitant, melancholy kiss to each of my cheeks. “Believe me, Dema.  If I had what I wanted . . . You’re the first person to make me want a future in a long time, but I know . . .”  His voice trails off miserably. “Be well, my dear.”

He disappears before I collect myself enough to lodge another protest.  I lean against the door, trying to collect myself, matter the tears that I want to cry - that I also do not want to cry.  When I finally push open the door, the shop is filled with light and smells like cinnamon and green tea. Asra has returned.  He climbs down the stairwell a moment later, fluffy hair glowing in the candlelight like a halo, and embraces me.

“Back from your jaunt at the palace?  Welcome home.” He looks at my face then steps back, eyebrows knitting in concern.  “I recognize that look. What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”  I am decidedly not fine, and I want a bath.  I step past him and head up the stairs. In the kitchen, I drag out our shallow tub and fill it with water from the pump.  Hands hovering over the surface heating the water through. Clothes tossed to the side, I climb in, dunk my head under to rinse out my hair, and sink as far down as I can.

I lose track of time, and how many times I’ve used my magic to reheat the water.  Asra eventually coaxes me out, wraps me in a fluffy robe, and forces me to drink a glass of water before letting me collapse into bed.  I may complain about Asra’s lack of personal boundaries. It’s a lie. I love that I can count on him to know what’s on my mind, and what I need to ease it.  At least, that is, when he’s here. But he’s here right now. Finally, without rolling over to face him, I talk.

I tell him the whole story in starts and stops, voice cracking as I try to keep myself from bursting into tears.  The mattress sinks with Asra’s slight weight as he lays down beside me and hesitantly puts a hand on my shoulder.

“That sounds like Ilya.” He’s quiet for a moment.  “The only things he loves more than drama is his own suffering.  And he’s determined to chase both.” His voice is uncharacteristically bitter when he speaks.  A witch afraid of commitment and a man more comfortable with suffering than without it. And me caught between whispers of the forgotten and murmurs of the yet unknown.  How crooked and confused! All the moreso because everytime I think I’ve unraveled part of it, the thread is taken from me again, lost in a maze of migraines and confused thoughts.  

I roll over.  I want to be able to see Asra before I ask the next question on my mind.  He’s lying on his side, Faust coiled up on his hip, watching me with those gentle eyes.  But Asra could make it less crooked, less confused. If he chose to. “I feel like I’ve known him a lot longer than a few days.  Just like I feel - know - I’ve known you longer than I can remember.” After all, Julian and Asra were even involved at some point in the past, it stands to reason that I knew him at the time.  “Did I know him? Before?” Even as I ask the question I can feel a headache starting to stab behind my eyes. I do my best to hide it from Asra concerned that he won’t answer my question if he knows one of my headaches is already beginning.

Asra reaches out and strokes my hair.  He frowns, looks away, then meets my eyes again.  “Yes. You knew each other.”

“Why doesn’t he remember me?”  I sit up in bed and pull my knees to my chest.  “Asra, Julian doesn’t remember the night the count died either.  And Nadia is missing years.” The headache stabs through my temples; I gasp, unable to disguise the pain any longer.  Asra sits beside and begins to massage my scalp. The headache starts to dissipate, pushed away by his fingers, cool like water.   For a moment I can hear a gentle splashing, like the fountain in the garden. The fountain that I had tried to reach Asra from the other night, only to wake with one of his scarves folded under my head.  This has happened before. I’ll get a hint of my past, some memory trying to push its way back into my consciousness. And then a headache, excruciating, too much to stand, or so I’ve thought in the past.  But Asra is always there, with his cool hands, and his magic, and the pain fades, but with it goes the whispers of things forgotten.

I jerk away from his touch and grab his hand.  “Asra?” His eyes flick away from mine. Faust slides from him to me, coiling around my shoulders with a reassuring squeeze.     

"The fountain!  The other night.  I did contact you and - what the hell did you do, Asra?"

"Dema, I'm so sorry.  I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"Losing you again.  You getting lost - trapped - in a memory that is trying to fight back."

"What do you mean?”

"Sometimes, it's as if you retreat so far into yourself when you follow a memory that you're lost.  You don't speak. You don't seem to hear. I tried to tell you everything once and it was -” His voice cracks.  “It was too much. You stayed like that for days once, not talking, looking at nothing, until -"

"Until what?"

"I, um, I figured out how to, how to make you forget again.  Dema, I'm so sorry. It's awful. Everything is wrong, and nothing is right, and it's all my fault.  I never -"

“Don’t take anything else away from me, Asra.  Not again."  

"I . . . I won’t.”  He sighs heavily. “But I can’t tell you everything you want to know. What if it’s too much for you? I can’t take the chance that this time you don’t come back from it.”

Trying to hold back frustrated tears, I slump back into the pillows. “I want to remember.  To _know_ , at least!  Why are you the only one to remember anything from that time?”

He lies back down beside me.  “I’m so sorry, my love. I wish I could tell you everything.”

It takes a moment for his endearment to sink in.  My love. He’s never called me that before and the implications aren’t ones I want to dwell on.  What else, who else have I forgotten? Why should Asra be the keeper of my past? It’s infuriating, even if the stabbing pain in my head reminds me that there are reasons behind his refusal.

“What should I do?”  I ask, because how can I possibly decide when I don’t have all the information.

“What do you want to do?”  Asra asks. I contemplate socking Asra with a pillow, but he continues before I work up enough energy to do so.  “You want to go after him, right? I can’t stop you. I just . . . I want you to be careful.”

“Why did you call me 'my love’ just now?”  When the question leaves my mouth, Asra's breath catches.  I push myself up, weight resting on one arm so that I can see his face.  He averts his eyes and brings one hand to his chest, resting it over his heart. I almost feel bad for doing so, but I press him anyway.  “What was I to you? Before.”

“We . . . We were lovers.”

As he says the words, icy talons stab through my temples, creep to the base of my skull, and trace a line of white, hot fire down my back.  I cry out from the sudden pain and collapse against Asra’s chest. Half formed images of Asra - almost but not quite memories - rush through my mind and are gone again.  A house is a desert. Asra laughing. Tangled in bedsheets with sweat beading along his back.  

“Dema!”  Asra’s voice is frantic as he calls my name.  I'm dimly aware of his hands on my arms, but he sounds far away.  Always so far away. “Dema, please, stay with me, please.” The ringing in my ears grows into the roar of a fire before darkness overtakes me.

When I come back to myself, there's a damp towel pressed over my eyes.  But the memory is still there. Asra kept his promise. The headache is in retreat for the time being, a weight curled at the base of my skull to remind me that it can return at any time.  Asra is asleep in an armchair beside the bed with Faust in his lap. Even asleep, his eyebrows knit together in worry.

We - Asra and I - were lovers?  It makes sense in a way. His face, lined with concern, is the first thing I remember when I woke three years ago.  His voice talked me through the fiery, all-day consuming pain that I was in until it subsided into migraines and nightmares.  I'd never questioned why we shared the rooms above the shop and slept in this single bed; it had been natural.

But why had he never told me? In all the nights we'd snuggled together he's never done more than kiss my forehead.  He'd never said a word about any of the bad or worse relationships I'd gotten into and out of over the past year or so, since I'd begun trying to prove to myself that I wasn't just a fragile porcelain doll.  What a tangled mess, and Asra was intent on carrying the weight of it on his own.

Oh, Asra.  I reached out and pushed his curls back from his face.  He sighed in his sleep and leaned his hand into my hand.  So, we loved each other once. He and Julian were involved once. Julian and I knew each other once.  And Asra alone knows what Julian and I may have been to each other. When I don't even know if I'm the same person Asra loved and Julian knew?  What now? 

Faust sleepily coils herself around my arm, moving from Asra’s lap to the pillow beside my head.  Her tongue brushes softly over my cheek. _“Friend okay?”_

“We can pretend.”  She bops her nose against mine before settling back to sleep.  With a sigh, I follow her lead.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew.... okay, so that chapter took a LOT longer to revise than I thought it would. If you've read the previous version you'll notice an awful lot of changes, but well, I think they needed to happen. After all, I had no intention of this being anything other than an insomnia fueled one off when I wrote that over a year ago.
> 
> If you're back after that long unplanned hiatus, thanks for sticking with me! If you're new welcome! Either way thanks for reading and feel free to hit me on on tumblr [@aria-i-adagio](https://aria-i-adagio.tumblr.com/).


	15. The Marrow of My Lazy Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Devotchka, "Whiskey Breath"

 

_“Oh here I go again you've heard it all before_

_But I only caught a glimpse_

_Can I see a little more?_

_You give it all, give it all_

_But it's never enough_

_When you're deaf, and dumb, and blind with love_

_And I can see down to the bottom of your big blue eyes_

_You're onto something better_

_And there's always someone better.”_

_~ Devotchka, ‘Whiskey Breath’_

 

“Dema!  Are you here?”

I roll over in bed and blink my eyes a few times, the voice calling my name only barely registering.  Morning again. Those do seem inevitable. And Asra is gone. Also inevitable. I hear footsteps on the steps and sit up.

“Dema?  I just let myself in.  The door was open.”

Portia.  Her voice is welcome; I could certainly use a friend right now.  I sit up and rub my eyes, before calling out that I’m in the bedroom.  She pushes aside the curtain that separates it from the rest of the apartment and pokes her head in.

“I was getting worried about you.  You’ve been gone from the palace for nearly two days.  Still asleep?”  

“Long night.”  I lean forward and bury my face in my hands.  “Really, really long night.”

Portia sits down on the edges of the bed and puts a hand on my shoulder.  “Doesn’t sound like it was a good one either.”

“No.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“It, um, involves your brother.”

“Ilya?  You ran into him again?  Oh -” She grabs my hands in hers and squeezes them before finding a blanket at the foot of the bed and wrapping it tightly around my shoulders.  “I bet you need some food and tea in you. Come on, I’ll make you breakfast while you tell me about it.”

Portia finds a mug in the kitchen, fills it with water, and pushes it into my hands.  I settle myself at the table, leaning back against the wall. I take a sip of the water before remembering how stale it’s become, then cool it off with water.  Better. Slightly.

“Um, Dema, how do you light your stove?”

“You have to ask the salamander.”

“The what?”

“Open the grate.”

Portia sets the full kettle on the stove and pulls open the grate, jumping back as the salamander pokes his vermillion head out at her.  “Oh, umm, hey there, do you mind lighting the stove? Um, please?”  

He bobs his head at her and backs into the oven.  He doesn’t light the stove so much as he produces his own heat from the charcoal we fed him.  Portia watches him in wonder then closes the grate back. “That’s not something I ever thought I’d see.”  She moves the kettle to the rapidly warming burner and then sits down across from me. “Now, what happened with Julian?”

I tell her about the red poison leaking from the Palace into the city’s water source, then finding Julian at the edge of the reservoir.  Her eyebrows raise when I describe the eel bite and Julian’s peculiar ability to heal it. I skip the interlude in the garden, landing us at Mazelinka’s after running from the guards.

“Mazelinka!  Mazelinka knew he was in the city and didn’t tell me!  Oh, I’ll have words with her!” The kettle whistles behind her, mirroring her anger, and she gets up to fill the tea pot, still muttering under her breath.  She turns back, pot wrapped in a towel, and sets it down between us on the table. “Keep going, sweetie, didn’t mean to cut you off.”

“Well, he had a nightmare.  Said it was about someone he had lost - had failed in some way.  But he did get back to sleep. The next morning, well -” I pause while the tea steeps, trying to decide on how much the next day I wanted to retell.  She pours me a cup, and doctors it with more milk and sugar than I would have added before pushes it into my hands. I take a sip. The sweetness is more welcome than I expected.  “He kept telling me that ‘we needed to talk,’ then kept finding one thing or another to put it off. Not that I didn’t help with that.” I took another drink of the tea. “Well, at the end of the day, he -”

“Let me guess, he gave you a speech about how he would only hurt you, and you were better off without him.”  Portia’s eyes are sympathetic as she folds her hands around mine. “Oh, I could just kick his ass right now.”

I finish my tea and pour another cup.  “I’ll help.” This cup gets less sugar, but just as much milk as the first.  “But what’s happened at the palace? I still have to finish figuring out what happened, if we’re going to keep the Countess from hanging him.”  

“Are you sure?  I’d understand if you want to avoid him, or thinking about him for awhile.”

“I’m sure.”  If anyone hangs Julian, it’s going to be me, and not for a murder that I don’t believe him capable of having committed.  “But how do we get him to cooperate?”

“Well, if I know anything about my brother it’s that when he gets like this, what he needs is a good ass kicking.”

“So where do we find him?”

“Probably holed up in a bar somewhere.”

“I bet I know which one.”

* * *

The Raven in the morning is mellow with light filtering in through the high windows, but definitely open.  A few patrons are gathered around a table, late morning breakfasts of eggs, sausages, and potatoes in front of them.  The perfect food to precede a day’s work. Or to recover from a full night.

“Oh, my brother would definitely hang out at a place like this.”  Portia grabs my elbow. “Look at those ceilings! Is that a bird in here?”

The massive black bird ceiling down from the rafters, cawing softly, to land at table near the back.  A table with a possibly asleep, although most likely just drunk, Julian sprawled across it. Portia makes a sound of disgust and stomps to the back of the room, pulling me with her.  “Ilya!” She shakes his shoulder roughly.

He sits up slowly, wincing and looking from side to side, glazed eyes finally coming to rest on me.  “Oh, fuck, it’s you. Or something that looks like you.” He bats the not quite empty glass back and forth between his hands.  “Come to taunt me? With things I want, but I can't have?”

"Julian, it is me."

"That's exactly, uh, precisely what a hallucination would say.  Or what the liquor would say for them."

Portia smacks the back of his head.  "You idiot. She's here. In front of you."

"Ow, Pasha!  Wait? You're not."

"For fuck's sake, Julian!”  I don’t have the patience right now for this.  “And the vast majority of hallucinations are auditory not visual.  Don't ask why I know that." It hadn't been a particularly reassuring fact, given the last few days and whispering cards, but at least it was good for calling bullshit on Julian's drama.  Something, I suppose.

"Betcha glad you're not, not with me now.  Look at this. Who but a masochist would want to be with someone like this?”

"Ilya -”

"After all the things I've done - so many - I don't deserve to be loved -”  He flops over, burying his face in his arms, clearly trying to shut us out enough that he can pretend that we weren’t actually here.  Just a drunken daydream.

Portia grabs his hair, jerks his head.  "Have you actually done anything you, fuckwit?”

"What? I mean -"

"Maybe you're feeling guilty for putting me - and Dema - through this nonsense when you're actually innocent?  Thought about that?" Portia grabs his ear and hauls him out if his chair. He stumbles, falls back on his ass, and gives up falling the rest of the way back to sprawl on the floor, arms outstretched and laughing bitterly.  Portia balls her fists up and stamps over to the bar. Barth seems to already know what she wants and passes a bucket to her without a word. She summarily dumps the contents - only slightly dirty water over her brother’s head.  He stops laughing and flings an arm over his eyes.

“You two aren’t going away are you?”

"Julian, please, just help us - help me - figure out what happened.  Everything seems to converge on three years ago. The Count, your mark, my missing memories."

He tosses his arm back to the side and looks up at me from the floor, blinking slowly as the water drips off his hair.  "What if you don't like what you find? About you? About me?"

"Can it be much worse than this?”  I kneel down beside him on the floor.  "You're a self destructive drunk, and I'm that _and_ a madwoman hearing voices."  Julian may be the drunk in the floor at this particular moment, but I don't think that I've truly been meaningfully sober since the new moon.  "Neither of us have much left to lose."

"Don't say that."

"What?  That we're both at or near the bottom of our respective bottles?”

"That you're mad.  You, you're not crazy."

"How do you know?"

"Just do."  The words slur together t and d eliding into some middle consonant. 

"And I know you're innocent.  Come on. Pick yourself up. We'll figure out if we're right or wrong."

"Why do, uh -" he sits up and runs his hand through his hair, fucking droplets of water into the floor.  "Why do you still want to help me, after . . ."

"Because it's the right thing to do.  Even if . . ." I let my voice trail off, unwilling to finish with even if you don't love me.  What kind of fool falls in love after a day and night? Even if there is something from the past that neither of us remembers, it's absurd.  Folly. But not letting an innocent man die. At least it’s easy enough to make the right choice when faced with that kind of question. “I’m not going to sit by and feel sorry for myself while you die for a crime you didn’t commit.”

He’s quiet for a moment, blinking at me with his single uncovered glassy grey eye.  “And I thought I was a masochist.” He sighs and grabs the edge of the table, which from this angle, I can see has been wisely bolted to the floor.  With a single motion that is far too controlled for someone who is as drunk as Julian is, he pulls himself upright. Lots of practice, I suspect. Not that I don’t have practice with similar maneuvers to mitigate drunkenness.  “Well, if the two of you aren’t going to give up . . . What’s next?”

I look over at Portia.  I haven’t thought too much about the possibilities for the next step. She bites her lip and looks from side to side before giving up on outside help.  “Well, we try to figure out who did kill the Count. There are a lot of folks around the palace who are much shadier than you.”

Julian settles himself back into a chair.  The barkeep appears from nowhere and puts a glass of water down in front of him before winking at me and disappearing again behind the bar.  I suspect this isn’t the first time he's seen Julian fall in the floor. Of course, the bartender at my favorite drinking spot has seen me in the floor multiple times, so who am I to judge?

“That’s not saying much.  I’ve, um, dealt with a lot of the people who hang around the court.”

Portia slides into the seat beside him and pushes the glass of water into his hands.  “See, that’s the kind of thing it would be helpful for me to know. What else are you keeping to yourself?”

"It's not actually pumpkins in the pumpkin bread."  He swallowed half of the glass of water. "Different sub species.  Moschata not maxima."

"The hell, Ilyushka!"

"I was keeping that to myself!”  He looks down at the water, appearing chastened by Portia's disapproving look.  "People are really serious about their pumpkin bread here."

"He's right, at least."  It's not useful information, unless you're deciding what seeds to plant in a garden.  But accurate is something.

"There's more I don't know than I do know."

 "We'll start simple, why were you working in the palace?”  Portia settles into the role of interlocutor easily.

"Well, the plague.  The palace summoned all the doctors in the city as researchers.  Probably not the best use of resources -" His face blanches, just like he did last night when I mentioned Valdemar.  I almost reach across the table to curl my fingers around his, but I stop myself, unsure if he’d appreciate the touch or reject it.  Or both. “I don’t want to - I can’t remember that!”

Missing the nuance of his declaration, Portia groans in her hands, just as dramatically as her brother.  "You need to remember _something_.  What kind of things seem to jog your memory?"

He shrugs, but there’s some color coming back to his face as he pulls away from whatever memories he associates with the idea of research.  "People, scents, places?”

"Places?”  She perks up.  "Maybe you'll remember something if you're at the palace."

"Um, is that a good idea, they are looking for me."

Portia rubs her hands together, grinning like a cat with a cornered mouse.  "Oh, I have my ways. Drink your water, Ilya. You've got until I get a mop from that nice bartender and take care of that spill to sober up."

He drinks some more of the water and looks across the table at me.  “You know a glass of water isn’t going to do much.”

I reach in my bag an extract a vial of a hangover remedy and push it across the table to him.  It also won’t sober him up, but it might help with the worst of the aftereffects. “I came prepared.  Think you’ll be able to keep your feet under you long enough to get to the palace?”

“Huh?”  He uncorks the vial and tosses the contents back without asking what it contains.  “Yeah, I’m used to walking on a moving surface. Ships, you know. I like ships.”

“We could still get you on one.”  As much as I want to know what happened three years, I’m not entirely in agreement with Portia’s apparent plan to bully him into total recall.  "Out of here."

“No."  He shakes his head slowly and takes another drink of water.  "Going to see this through. Now that I've, um, said I would."

I feel the corners of my mouth curling up - just a little - hinting at a smile.  "Julian."

"What?”

"Thanks."

His gaze moves from my face to where his gloved fingers fold around the glass.  He's quiet for a moment, then speaks softly. "I've done nothing that you should be thanking me for."

Portia sits back down next to Julian.  “Here’s the plan, kids.” She pushes a steaming mug of coffee to Julian.  “The palace is filled with all these secret passages and portals. I’ve been, er, exploring in my free time.  And one of the portals near the back garden gate leads directly to Lucio’s wing. Maybe that’ll jog some memory.  Or none at all because you didn’t murder him.”

Julian takes a sip of his coffee deliberately avoiding commenting.  After my last excursion there, the thought of returning to Lucio’s wing makes me consider asking Barth for one the road.  “Um, Portia. Just what do the other servants say about his wing?”

“Well . . . we really don’t use it . . .  Just what did you see the other night?”

I didn’t _see_ anything.  Not really. It was what I felt and heard, and right now, I’m almost leaning toward preferring to believe it was a product of something disordered in my head.  “There’s something up there.”

Portia glances down.  “The word haunted does get thrown around.”

“Might as well go to the source so to speak.” 

“Do you think Lucio’s ghost is in his wing?”

Julian finishes his coffee and cracks his knuckles.  “Lucio was never one to accept death. I mean, by all rights losing that arm should have killed him.  Even with the best surgeon I know actually in charge.”

“Who’s that?”

“Um, one of Nadia’s siblings actually.  Nazali Satrinava.”

“Nazali!”  Portia perks up.  “You know them?”

“Yeah, uh, learned almost everything I know about medicine from Dr. Satrinava.  You?”

“When I first came to the palace, they came after they heard about the Countess’s condition.”

“What happened to Nadia?”

“She was, uh, asleep, just until the past few years.  Dema didn’t fill you in?”

“It, um, well . . ."  I feel the blood in my cheeks.  We'd been a bit distracted.

Portia rolls her eyes and sighs with enough drama to rival her brother.  She fixes me with a look that I believe translates to: damn, girl, reorder your priorities. Glancing quickly about the room, she lowers her voice and speaks.  "She fell into something like sleep the night he died. She only woke a couple months ago. And she's missing most of her memories from her time in Vesuvia."

Julian’s face falls into a pained expression.  “That. I’m so sorry that happened to her. And that explains a lot.  Who’s been in charge since then?”

“Valerius, mostly.  He managed to largely keep Milady’s condition under wraps.”

“I doubt that hosting another masquerade was Valerius’s idea though.”  His concerns about the city’s finances alone would lead him away from the idea.

Portia shakes her head.  “It came from the other four, but Milady now sees it as a was to restore a sense of normalcy in the population, or something like that.”

“What do the other courtiers get out of the masquerade?”  Banquets are probably suffice to motivate Volta, but Vulgora’s interests appeared limited to physical violence, and Vlastomil seemed like he was only interested in playing in the dirt with his worms.  As for Valdemar, I didn’t know where to begin speculating on their motives.

Portia shrugs.  “I don’t understand much of anything they do.  And I don’t really care as long as we can show that Ilya’s innocent.  So we’ve got to do something to jog his memory.” She takes a deep breath and then her eyes particularly start to twinkle in anticipation of what must sound, to her at least, like a fine adventure.  “Who’s ready to go ghost hunting?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Siblings, right! I can definitely picture my red headed little sister dumping a barrel of mop water over me in an attempt to sober me up. 
> 
> Chapter is a bit short here, but I have good stuff coming up for you in the next several, my loves. Good stuff.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	16. Directions to See a Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from The Black Angels. It's a nice trippy album. :)
> 
> And this chapter was co written by the lovely [Verdin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdin/pseuds/Verdin). Many, many thanks.

Julian’s mood seems to improve as Portia leads us up the hill that I had stumbled my way down twice the other night.  Sunlight, perhaps, or the effect of the alcohol working its way out of his system. He’s quiet, but as he promised, sure footed, even during a scramble up a particularly steep part of the path.  Portia unlocks the lemonstone gate that leads into the garden. We follow her around one turn of the hedge maze and she two in front of two statues and grins. “There are all these passages and portals throughout the palace.  I’ve been, um, mapping them in my free time. Deep breath, both of you.” She takes Julian’s hand and mine then steps between the statues, pulling us both with her. There’s a sudden lurch and a sickening sensation of falling up, then we land in a dark hallway.  Julian loses his balance, pulling both Portia and me to the floor with him. “Graceful, Ilya.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t, um, expecting that . . . damn, it’s dark in here . . .”

I try to summon a light to my hands.  Like the other night, my magic doesn’t quite seem to work.  The light flickers for a moment, then flares, and extinguishes itself.  “Sorry. Not much help right now.”

“No matter.  This is Lucio’s old wing right?”  Julian’s long limbs unfolding as he gets to his feet is just barely visible as my eyes adjust to the dim light.  “There were candelabras all along the walls. Sure there’s still a candle or two in one.”

As he paws along the wall, looking for something to create some light, I get to my feet and dust off my clothes.  Like before the air here doesn’t feel quite right - more that the staleness of an unused room. It’s heavy around me and moving - slowly, but strongly, like a current in a river.  Hands extended in front of me, I walk down the hall, leaving Portia and Julian to their search for a candle. My hand finds a door knob and without thinking I pull it open. 

The ground is cold under my feet, like ice through the soles of my shoes, and as slick as ice too. Did I step in? I can't really remember making that decision, but I must have made it. It feels oddly wet, and feel how I slide and start to fall and... something catches me. I think something did, or did I just react fast enough to catch myself for once?

 

_You. Again. I remember you._

 

A little wisp of wind against my ear makes me shiver, the sudden little current like an unexpected breath.

"Hello?"  No response.  I'm not certain if I should even have expected one.  Or if I even wanted one. There's a rectangle of light on the opposite wall, just barely pushing through heavy drapes.  I pick my way across to it, stepping with care on a floor that has no business being so slick. The room smells of ash. Ash and dogs and years of neglect.  A cloud of dust rises like smoke when I push aside the curtain.

The light that falls through a dirty window feels muted, faded like an old memory. This is... a bathroom? Polished marble and a giant bathtub with golden claws, somehow reminding me of the one in my own rooms, just far, far more... absurdly opulent? Is that a thing? The palace seemed a lot at first, but I've somehow grown used to it, but this....  A swan is engraved into the window, proud wings spread in flight, leaving a trail of little crystals set in the glass as he leaves the water. It must be a spectacle when the sun shines through it.

Something touches my back as I trail my finger through the dust on the edge of the tub.  I turn, expecting Julian or Portia, but there's no one behind me, at least not that I can see.  The sensation of fingers - icy cold - close around my wrist. "Who's there?" My voice shakes softly.  Foolish question, really, how many ghosts could one expect from a single wing of the palace? I glance to my right, at a wall of mirrors.  There's a faint form towering beside me, though it could be a trick of the light or the cobwebs that coat the surface. I see the shape move, shimmering, just a slight tilt at the top - a nod to acknowledge my presence?  "Lucio?"

 

_Was that so hard? Foolish girl.  Of course it is I, always have been, always will be, and... ah, so warm, I have forgotten how warm you were. Can feel it down to my bones. Well, metaphorical bones, or metaphysical ones, whatever.  Pretty enough. You'll do for now._

 

I step closer to the mirror, lifting my free hand, fingers skimming slowly over the surface.  My mind is one step behind my body and the cold is seeping slowly, so slowly into both. "Can you speak?"  This might be a bad idea. Or it could be a good one. If he knows what happened, how he died, who killed him.  Do you even remember your life, once you're dead?

I see in the mirror how he leans down to me, about to whisper in my ear.  Maybe? A cool gust of wind again, washing over my skin. Is he touching me?

 

_Aah.  Your fragrance.  Human. Not ash and not fire and not nothing, most of all not nothing, and I inhale again, deeply, trying to inhale some of your very life back into me.  Never thought I'd miss that so much. A question. What was it again? Oh, right. Can I speak? No, I say and giggle, because I can't, not here, not now, and yet your ears seem to prick like Melchior's when he hears something interesting. How I miss his soft fur..._

 

He's here.  Yet not here.  I take a deep, slow breath and close my eyes, thumbing through the pages of the books in my shop in my head.  At least one related to the question of spirits and communication between the living and the dead. The twisting pattern of a sigil that strengthens the link between the spirit and our world appears behind my eyes.  At the shop, I'd use chalk or a sand tray, but technically anything will do, even the dust overlaying the surface of a mirror or a pattern held carefully in the mind. I lift the hand that still feels like it's being held by cold fingers and carefully trace the design onto the mirror, hoping that my recall is clear enough.

 

 _I put my hand on her shoulder, trying to remember how it felt. Touching someone out of pride, rare as it was, one of my mercenaries when he did a particularly good job, because I sense what she's doing, even if I don't know the details. Who needs details anyway? Bureaucrats and tailors, and that's it. She's drawing me towards her, or into the mirror, or in her head, and she feels almost solid under my palms, and I press down a little more._  

 

The feeling of someone standing over me only grows stronger as I finish the sigil.  The cold touch shifts from my wrist to my shoulder, and I swear I can feel a breath on the top of my head like a lover’s faint sigh.  I shiver, both from the chill in the air and the thought of a ghost hovering so uncomfortably close. Once I've drawn in the least few lines, I lean close to the diagram and breath on it, to activate spell.  Breath and blood - the two symbols of life, and I don't want to mess with blood magic. Not unless I must. Just for a moment, the diagram glows - a faint pulse of blue green light. I wait, hands at my sides, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt as I tried to keep them from shaking.

 

_Are you scared? I whisper and chuckle. I'm scared too, or giddy, or maybe both. It's nice to see someone with actual competency trying for once, not the courtiers, not that one time - just a single time, that Val showed up, around deep in his cups and another bottle at hand.  I feel her magic wash over me like a wave, and then, it's almost there. I'm almost there, almost, can see myself forming in the mirror, my glorious human self, and then it's gone again. Lost in the sea. That's how the afterlife feels for me. Sometimes almost at the safe shores, but then again so far out between the waves that I can feel myself drowning, becoming another one of the sad shapes that haunt the palace. But not me. Not Lucio._

 

The presence was stronger, but only for a moment.  Breath alone isn't going to be enough. I gnaw at my bottom lip, then with a sigh dig a penknife out of my bag.  The chance that he _knows_ \- that he could clear Julian of his death - it's too important to not pressure.  I add six lines to the diagram, a hexagon - regular as I can make without a compass - framing the sigil.  Any spellwork I do within the frame will last only as long as the frame itself, no matter how powerful. The limiting frame _might_ keep Asra from killing me, once he finds out about this little adventure.  I prick my finger and allow a bead of blood to form before touching it to the center of the diagram.

 

_The sensation is a bit like cumming, and I shudder in delight.  Maybe I just moaned, not quite sure. A heartbeat full of life pumping through me from that tiny drop, and my nails dig into her clothes. Damn magicians, always holding back their power.  Greedy things. More. I need more... but I smile. My old charm is still there, somewhere under the fur._

 

I wince.  The feeling of a hands grasping at my side is stronger.  Nearly painful. I'd be proud of myself for recalling the sigil well enough for it to be effective, if there wasn't a very insistent voice in the back of my head declaring that I was certainly going to regret this mistake.  

"Speak if you can, Lucio."

Silence.  But the phantom hand tightens on my waist.  

 

_You'd be the first to want that. I chuckle. Does she hear me as I whisper in her ear? Briefly muse to lick along the shell, make her shudder as she made me._

 

Rude, I think, even as I feel my head tipping just slightly to the side.  And not enough, yet, it seems. Damn. The trouble with this spell - with most spells - is the sequential increase in power that is geometric, not arithmetic in nature.  The next step adds four drops of blood to the cardinal points, not simply a second drop. But I want - I need - answers. Fuck it. I squeeze the pad of that finger and touch it to the mirror right to left, lower to upper.  Whispering to myself, because it seems odd to work in silence when I know someone else is here, I dot more blood onto the diagram. Sixteen drops more, makes for twenty one total, the product of three and seven. Three for stability and creation, seven for completion and expectation.

The sigh of the dead man is clearly audible this time, or maybe it's a moan. I'm not quite sure.

"What gives me the pleasure of your presence?" The ghost’s voice grows stronger as he speaks. "Did you miss me so much?" 

I can feel sharp nails trailing along my jaw and a thumb being over my bottom lip.  Miss him? Why would I, specifically, miss him? Or does he simply assume that everyone in the city, process and paupers alike, long for his presence?  

"Nadia wants, needs to know . . .”  My voice shakes as I try to figure out a way to ask the question that will get me an answer.  “How did you die, Lucio?"

"Dead?"  A melancholic laugh. He's bitterly amused by the question it seems.  "I'm not dead, my dove. I'm like you, not quite alive." 

 

_She's not.  I knew the first moment I touched her.  Two sides of the same coin, her side wiped clean, mine engraved too deeply.  I want to take her, suddenly, urgently, to become one, but know that won't do the trick.  I was told by trustworthy sources._

 

"Like me?”  What does he mean by not quite alive?  Fingers trail through my hair. I can make out more of his image now.  Blonde, average height, trim physique, face still lost in dust and shadow.  "How are you like me?"

"You do not know? Oh, of course not." 

 

_She's their pawn.  A perfect little doll, ignorant of how they toy with her.  Liars and cowards, all of them, and I feel the heat of my hate returning, and it feels so good._

 

"There's quite a lot I don't know.”  For a second, my temper flares and I have to shove back thoughts of Asra and everything he's hidden from me - even if it's true that he withholds information to keep me safe.

"They are horrible, aren't they? Always telling that you don't need to concern yourself with this and that...."

 

 _Heavens, I hate being sober.  Happier to be a drunken fool. No wonder Val stays that way.  The realization they did_ that - _that they lied, manipulated, despised me, only came after my little accident.  For a moment, her face has fallen. She knows what I mean. Could I bring her around to my side?  Would she help me? Not it she understood what would happen, how we're alike, but then she needn't understand, only obey._

 

"Who are they?"  I can't decide whether he's being condescending or if he'd commenting on his own experience.  "For you, that is?"

"Take a wild guess, my dove. Isn't it always those that claim to love you?" 

 

_Liars, selfish liars, all of them!_

 

The people who claim to love us, eh?  The blood on the diagram drips slowly, pooling into oval drops.  The dream, the dream where Asra cut Julian's hand and allowed the blood to fall.  The one that was more than a dream, if what Julian said about Asra involving himself with blood magic was true.  I pull away from the cold hand on my shoulder and sit down on the edge of the tub. The people who claim to love us and blood.  There's a connection here, one I can't quite put into language. "What do you know about Asra?"

Any number of things would have met my expectations for what would happen next, but not hysterical laughter.  It starts with a low giggle and rises and rises until the whole room around me seems to be shaking with it.

 

_Of course that little bastard is behind this!  Of-fucking-course! Not enough that he fucks my wife, he also sends -her- of all people to find out... find out... No.  Nonono. Not this time. Fuck this._

 

Suddenly, there is silence. I see one of the red pearls loose its shape, run down the shining surface like a tear, and then, I scream.  Scream before I realize that it was the mirror cracking into pieces, shattering the image of me and the room and the not-quite-there man, destroying the connection we had.

"Shit!  Shit, shit, shit!"  The mirror crumbles leaving between a raw plaster wall.  There's a shriek from the hallway - Portia, or maybe Julian.  They run in from the hallway, door slamming behind them.  

“Dema!  What is it are you alright?”  Julian fumbles with a half burned candle, that they appear to have finally managed to light.  “What happened?”

Portia runs a hand through her hair.  "My god, what a mess! You didn't get hurt did you?"

"I'm okay.  Lucio, um, he's definitely here."

"You spoke to him?  What did he say? Does he know who killed him?”

"I - we didn't get that far.”

"Is he still here?"  Portia spins about on her heels.  "Hey, Count, I need to know who killed you.”

"I don't think it'll be that easy."  My spell is gone shattered along with the mirror.  Casting another one, well, it was possible, but I'm not at all sure that it would be wise.  No, definitely not. The first hadn't been wise.

A crash from the next room interrupts Portia's next question.  Perhaps I won't need another spell, not if Lucio’s ghost is capable of property destruction.

Julian holds his candle to the door like some sort of ward.  It quivers against the darkness of the hall beyond. "What was that?”

"Maybe the dogs."  Portia doesn't sound particularly convinced by her own statement.  

"Came from his bedroom."

 

_No, no, Mercedes, don't look at me like this and wag your tail just because daddy made a fun mess.  That bust was expensive and I looked so regal in it, and now it's gone just because of that damned witch.  He and his kind make me so angry, still do. What did I expect? Anything Noddy does being actually useful and not another selfish act? Ha!_

 

Julian pushes the door to the bedchamber over and enters first, candle held out before him.  There's a pile of broken ceramic in the floor, flanked by Lucio's hounds. They looked surprised for a moment, then rush Julian with happy barks, tails wagging as they prance around him, demanding attention.

"Old friends?"

"Umm, yeah."  Julian hands the candle to Portia before the dogs can knock it from his hands and kneels in the floor.  He rubs Melchior's ears as the hound pushes his nose against Julian’s face. Mercedes huffs and sprawls in the floor, rolling over and exposing her belly for rubs.

 

_Jules. You too. Of course. We're getting the band back together, and the witch is the new lead singer. You're looking like shit, old friend, and I've seen you looking like shit before._

 

A massive portrait of the Count in a gilded frame dominates the far wall of the bedroom.  Like the painting in the dining room, red is the dominant color. Lucio is depicted in profile, standing with his heel on a horse’s skull, triumphant over the death’s head that haunted the right corner of the dining room portrait.  Death’s smiles is as pronounced as it is for any skull, but the cobwebs, dust, and ash surrounding it add an additional layer to the grin.

The door crashes shut.  Beside me, Julian jumps.  His fingers twist into mine, then just as quickly twist away.  “Helluva draft.”

Air pushes past my face, warmth incongruent with the rest of the room.  I don’t think that’s a draft.

At my feet lie the crumbled remains of a statue, gold and translucent oranges and browns, some precious stone.  Agate maybe? I see the remains of an armored arm broken from the body that's lying over there, half of a sword still in its clutches.  It's gilded, and I know quite well whom it belongs to. How can somebody have so many depictions of himself in his own bedroom? I'm happy to avoid my face after waking up for the longest time, while the count seems to be somebody who'd consider a mirror over his mattress an excellent idea.

If Lucio has enough energy remaining from my spell to shatter a bust, perhaps he has enough left to interact with us.  "Lucio?" There’s another push of air between me and Julian, and then his chin tilts down, as it touched by a hand.

“Now this is a face I didn’t expect to see again.”  The ghost’s voice is more distant than before, but still very present.

“Lucio?”  Julian’s whisper is barely audible.

A laugh from the ghost and a flash of white in the corner of my eye.  “Jules, you somehow escaped the dungeon. And survived. Fascinating.”  Air brushes past my face again, followed by the stinging sensation of claws brushing along my cheek.  "And your pretty little friend you brought to the Masquerade too." Cold claws wrap around my hand, jerking me away from Julian.  "I almost didn't recognize her the other night." The pale form spins me around.

 

_That's a lie. I do recognize her, the way she feels, something of Jules, but that she's another one of Asra's pawns... I should have known. Should have known from the start. Why are they looking like that? Don't they know? Don't they remember? I may be missing one thing or the other, that's a mix of booze and drugs and death, but they..._

 

"Montag . . .  Lucio, what happened to you?”  Julian speaks the first name - the one I don't recognize - softly, almost affectionately, and I’m reminded of Valerius’s comment that he and Julian knew the Count better than anyone else in the court.

 

 _I let her go, suddenly losing all interest in her.  Jules sounds like he used to, back in the day, the good, old, bloody days, and I decide to be at his side to bop his silly old nose.  Always liked that nose. Liked him. Yes, I think I did? Then something happened. Did the magician fuck him, like he did with anybody back then?  Would you do that to me, Jules? Could you? Suddenly, I feel a bit like weeping, and don't like it at all._ _My fingers are running through those red curls, and I grab one tweaking it sharply.  "Well, what's your diagnosis, doctor?" I spit. No need for them to think me sentimental._

 

"I . . . I don't really know.  There was a fire. Here, I thought I might have . . ."  Julian's voice trails off and he lifts his hand, as if he's trying to curl his fingers around Lucio's.  

Portia breaks in, hands on her hips and single minded.  "Who killed you, Lucio?"

"And who might you be, little girl?"  The ghost sounds lost in thought, hand still dancing over Julian's skin.  I feel a sudden wave of aggression rolling through the room. He doesn't like being spoken to like this.

Portia's own glare, as formidable as a thunderclap, knocks into the aggression rolling from Lucio's ghost.  "Ilya's my brother, and I'm not about to let him die for something he didn't do."

"Are you still trying to die dramatically, Jules?  I told you to stop that nonsense more than once, didn't I, my silly puppy?"  The claws follow the line of the high cheekbone.

 

_I choose to ignore the little brat for now, because there are tears forming in Jules' eyes, nostalgia, maybe love even, and they give me more than the witch ever could. He's the last one with a kind thought left for me, and a part of me cherishes that more than I expected._

 

The Count's obvious affection for Julian surprises me, but perhaps it's a way to persuade him to help us.  "Please, Lucio, the courtiers have Nadia convinced that Julian murdered you. What really happened?” The ghost returns his attention to me, red eyes flashing with anger.

"So Noddy is a beautiful and dumb as ever.  Ha! Some things never change. Noddy and Asra and their ilk . . ."  That obviously means means me, and it sounds amazingly offensive for such a little word.

Portia snaps again, fearless in her anger at the comment.  "Don't speak of Milady that way."

Julian sighs, but speaks kindly, as if he's had to calm the Count's temper many times before.  "Lucio, you know her better than that."

"And now she's looking for you to put up a statue of Vesuvia's hero?" 

 

_I know what she thinks of me. Of course I do. I used to love the challenge I thought her to be, but now I know better. A beautiful waste of space._

 

"You don't know what happened to you, do you?"  I know that the question is going to piss him off even more, but pissed off people often reveal a lot.  "At least Nadia is interested in finding out the truth."

 

_The witch is right. I do not know, and I wonder if I care.  When things come together, not a single one of them will remain anyway, and still..._

 

"I have seen Jules try to kill as it was about saving his own bony ass. He didn't manage, even then."

"So what the hell happened?”  The limited amount of patience that Portia began with has clearly run its course, and if I haven’t managed to piss Lucio’s ghost off she certainly will.  "Why are you even still here? You're dead."

The whole room seems to inhale and hold its breath, and I see Julian duck defensively. "Please, don't..." He whimpers, the sounds echoed by one of the dogs, obviously knowing and fearing what might come now, and I feel it too, feel death in the air and feel my fingers weave energy to fend off whatever might be coming and . . .

"Jules? Would you kindly take your lovely sister for a walk before I rip her fucking head off?”  The dead count's voice cuts like a knife, and suddenly I can imagine him wreaking havoc on the battlefield so very easily.

I take a step, placing myself between Portia and the Count's ghost.  Why the hell did I use blood to summon him? And what did I do wrong with the framing that he still has residual power from it?  Better question: how do I undo the it now? But it’s my blood he’s drawing energy from, that should give me some control over him.

"That's enough, Lucio."

Behind me, Julian is frantically pulling at Portia's hand, whatever spell Lucio had him under broken by the threat.  My fingers twitch through the movements of a ward to banish evil spirits, holding it in the air. But I can't resist one last attempt to get something from him.  "What happened? What did Asra and my 'ilk' have to do with it?”

"Sit down, witch, will you?" A nod towards the bed.  Now that his attention is on me, I have an idea what happened with Julian.  The world around us feels like it's under water, Julian's scramble to get Portia out before she tries to choke a dead goat somehow far away and not of any significance.  He is. Lucio is.

Is this what people mean when they speak of charisma?  Or some perversion of the idea? One foot starts to move in the direction of the bed, and I pull it back, trying to ignore the part of me that so very much wants to follow his command.

There's a sudden movement, a blur of white and red, and a cold arm wraps around my waist and tosses me onto the bed.  Greasy gray ash stirs around, clouding the air. I cough, then choke as it dawns on me that this is all that remains of Lucio's body.

"Always resisting.  Just like him! Just like Asra!  You want to know what happened? Fine."  The pitch if the voice rises and a cold draft swirls around the room.  "It was supposed to be mine! But Asra stole it. Thief! A new body for that dead lover he was always weeping about.”  When he speaks the last line, there’s sharp stab behind my eyes, like one of those claws pressed through my head. All the air in the room seems to rise to the ceiling, lifting the drapes around the bed.  The draft becomes hotter as it swirls, painfully hot. "Dirty, conniving little thief!" The air settles and the voice lowers. "So now, I'm . . . I'm this . . . But not for much longer."

 

_The very thought of him makes my blood boil even worse than the impertinent little Devorak.  The witch remembers, almost does, I can feel her rising panic, washing away some of the things Asra did to her to wipe her clean for him.  His own little virgin sacrifice, tabula rasa because she could not stand him anymore, because nobody could, and I lie her down gently on my sorry remains.  It surely would have been a nice body. Drape myself at her side, looking down through glowing eyes. Well, that maybe would work better if I was in better shape.  She's scared, and angry. I like that in a lover._

 

"You know that you are like me, don't you?  Surrounded by liars and traitors, only thinking about their own desires.  Aah, yes, of course you know, and you also know your owner only means well.  Such a waste of talent, being nothing but an assistant to a thieving scalawag that took even your truth away."

His voice is low now, sensuous.

Truth?  My truth?  What is the truth?  A freezing finger traces along my jaw, and despite the cold - almost cold enough to burn, I want to tilt my face into his hand.  Let the chill of his fingers push back the pain in my skull. Just give in and obey whatever command I'm given. I also want to lash out at him!  Owner? Oh hell no! The second part of me wins and I roll away from him, catching another lungful of ash, escape interrupted by a second coughing fit.

A disappointed little sound, and then he chuckles, and it sounds more human than anything else that came from him.  "What is it, dove?"

A hand, both welcome and unwelcome, settles on my hip.  It would be easy enough to let him turn me back over, do whatever it is he wants . . .  No, no, no. I don't want . . .

Portia's voice breaks the spell.  "Leave her the fuck alone!”

And suddenly, I can scramble backwards, our if the bed, nearly falling into floor before hands - warm, human - catch me and pull me tight against a chest that's rising and falling with breath.  Julian.

"Dema, are you alright?”

A laugh fills the room.  "You know I wouldn't hurt her, Jules, not unless she wanted me to.  And oh -" I can see Lucio stand before Julian spins me around and tightens his arms around me, holding me close against him.  Another cold breath ghosts over my neck, and then a not quite solid, but ever so definitely present, weight presses against my back, as if the ghost leaned over me to press a kiss to Julian's cheek.  “I’d do that so well.”

 

_I hold my hand over my mouth to stifle my laugh as they leave. This time, it's not an impressive, manly one, but the mad giggle the huff the ladies are in and the blush that threatens to burn Jules' cheeks deserve. I let them leave for now, even if it dreads me to be so awfully alone again. Melchior gives me one long longing look, and I allow him to go and play with them. Real pets are better than anything I can offer._

_Why does Noddy want to know what happened all of a sudden? And why wasn't I informed about that new idiocy the courtiers are trying? If I didn't need them, I . . .._

 

Julian seems frozen in place.  I pull away from him and bolt for the door.  Lucio’s amused laugh follows me as I stumble out of his room and fall hard on my knees.  The hallway shifts in and out of focus along with the throbbing in my temples, stabbing through my skull each time I cough.  The ash still coats my mouth and throat, choking and disgusting. A wave of nausea hits me and I curl over myself dry heaving in the floor.  A cold nose presses against the back of my next and one of the dogs whines, briefly pushing against me then pulling away.

Gentle hands close around my shoulder.  "It's okay. He's gone." Portia kneels beside me, sitting me up, a supportive arm around my shoulders.  "Ilya, do you have something, anything to drink?”

A rustling of fabric and then he closes by fingers around a metal flask.  The alcohol burn is a welcome distraction from the pain in my head as I swish the liquid around my mouth.  I spit it back out on the floor, more concerned with getting as much of the body remains of Lucio out of my mouth than with dignity.  Another sip. This one I swallow and try to pay more attention to the cheap liquor burning it's way to my gut than to the pounding in my head.

"Dema?"  Julian's voice.  Cool fingers on my forehead.

"I'm -”  I want to say fine.  But I'm not. Colors explode behind my eyes when I close them, but even the dim light of the hall is too much, too bright, too painful to keep them open.  The liquor washed the grit from my mouth and throat, but it's done nothing for the nausea. "Head's killing me."

"Migraine like?”

Nodding is painful.  I feel like my skull is about to disintegrate, to crumble from the inside out.  My skin crawls over my arms, and where Lucio's ghost grabbed my shoulders, I can still feel his claws scorching my skin.  Despite the lingering heat, I'm shivering, the shakes starting in my chest and radiating out.

"Let's get you to your room."  Portia stands, pulling me along with her.  Even with her arm around me, I stumble, balance lost to the migraine.  The world turns around me, and I don't have enough concentration to both not throw up and to stay on my feet.  Strong arms catch me and lift me off my feet.   

"I've got you, darling."  He cradled me against him, one arm under my thighs, other pressing me to his chest.  I tuck my head against his neck, trying to block out as much light as I can from my eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... how did the dual POV work?
> 
> Thanks for reading. Feedback is always welcome, here or at Tumblr. I'm also [@aria-i-adagio](https://aria-i-adagio.tumblr.com/) there.


	17. Under a Moon Cloud Masterpiece - NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Devotchka, 'The Oblivion.' (Why yes, I do have a thing for Devotchka.)

Ilya lays me down on the bed in my room and soothes his hand over my forehead.  Portia whispers behind him, "I'll go get the tea Milady drinks for her headaches, might do some good.  Don't answer the door, Ilya. I'll let myself back in." When the door closes behind her, I feel it through my entire body.  She might as well have slammed me with it.

"Right."  Julian’s voice is soft.  Tolerable. There's the slight sound of fabric brushing against itself, probably him taking off his coat and laying it across furniture.  

The nausea is fading, and some of the pain starts to retreat from my jaw and from around my eyes.  I'm hurting, but I think I could probably stand without collapsing. Pushing myself up on my elbows to ask for some water, I cough again.  My tongue is still dusty in my mouth, and my face is covered in greasy, gritty ash. Just what the grease and dust is hits me harder than it did in Lucio’s room or the hallway outside.

Panic.  Get it off me.  Get Lucio off me.  Now.

I kick both my legs of the bed.  I've stripped off my over shirt, and I'm halfway to the bathroom before Julian catches my shoulders.

"What are you -”

"I've got to get this ash off me."

"You should lie down."

"No."  I tug the sleeveless undershirt over my head, toss it aside and start undoing the fastenings of my trousers.  The bathroom, with its clawfoot tub and running water is only a few steps away. "If you want to be helpful, that entire wall over there is soap.  Find me the least scented one."

The edge of the tub is cool beneath my thigh.  I turn the cold water tap on, and splash the water gushing from the faucet's open mouth over my face and arms.  I rinsed my mouth out again before stepping into the tub and sticking my head under the running water. The cold against my scalp is shocking at first, but after a moment of adjustment feels wonderful as a contrast to the headache.  I cup my hands, sluicing water over my back; although most of the ash that wasn't on my face or in my hair should be on the clothes that were now scattered over the floor.  

"Dema?”

The water draining away from me is clear, or at least mostly so.  I find a stopper for the drain and cut the hot water tap on as well, before glancing up.  Julian's standing in the door, trying not to look at me.

"Don't be silly."  I fold my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around my knees anyway.  "You've already seen me naked."

"Yes, well, um, I didn't know how you would -"

"Julian, just give me that soap, please."  I stretch out a hand and take the bottle from him.  

"Best I could find.  They were all scented, but that one is some kind of mint."

"It'll do.  Thank you."

"Is your head still hurting?”

"Yes.  A little less, but the room's not spinning.  At least, not right now. Will you -" Now I'm feeling shy.  Excellent. "Sit with me? In case it starts again." I'm scared for a moment that he'll say no, but then he sits down in the floor, leaning back against the tub, facing away from me.

"I'm sorry.  About everything.  Last night, pushing you away.  I just, I didn't - I don't want you hurt."

The water is up to my hips, enough to bathe in, if not soak.  There really isn't time for a soak after all. I cut off both taps and respond to Julian.  "You told me that, several times actually." I pour some of the soap out into my hands, and work it into a lather before running my hands back through my hair.

"It's just -"  He shifts, turning to kneel next to the tub.  "Here, let me." His fingers replace mine, working the lather through my hair, taking more time than really necessary, to try to massage some more of the headache away.  "It's just that I really feel myself drawn to you. And that hasn't happened in . . . Well, I don't know. Tilt your head back for me." I lean back into his hands, and he continues talking while his fingers work on the base of my skull and his thumbs press circles into my temples.  It's working wonders. "And then, by some miracle, you're drawn to me, and that _doesn't_ happen.  I panicked.  Temporary madness."

"Brain fever."

"Hah, maybe not that bad.  I do, actually, want to be with you."  He pulls my hair together and twists it up onto the back of my head.  "Can you, um, can you forgive me?"

I twist, water sloshing around my hips as I turn to him.  He's biting his bottom lip, eyes lowered, color rising in his cheeks.  "If you kiss me."

His smile is slow, almost shocked.  He cups my jaw, fingers slick with soap, and leans over, pressing his lips softly against mine.  It's a brief, sweet kiss, then he pulls back just far enough to whisper, "I don't deserve it."

"Forgive doesn't have much to do with deserve, Ilya."

"Umm, yes, well."  He straightens back up and clears his throat.  "Uh, if you lean forward, I'll get your back. I know it feels disgusting, having greasy ash on you.  Like you'll never get it off you." His hands start at my neck, kneading the tight muscles there, then working over my shoulders.  

"How do you know that?”

His hands stop at my waist.  They shake a little as he answers me.  "I, um, the Lazaret. I was sent there a few times.  Several times. During the plague."

At the mention of the island in the middle of the harbor, the muscles in my jaw clench and another stabbing iron nail pushes through my skull.  Julian catches the tension and soothes his fingers over my temples. He holds my head while I try to recapture my breath. "We should probably get you out and have you lay back down."

When I close my eyes, the whirling kaleidoscopic colors have returned.  Julian sluices water of my head, running his fingers through my hair, both massaging my scalp and making sure to get all the soap out.  He curls my hand around the edge of the tub, clearly meaning for me to hold onto it in case I get dizzy, even while still sitting. “Hang on, I’ll grab a couple of towels.”  I experiment with opening my eyes for a moment, then decide to leave them closed, preferring swirling colors to the light coming through the small, high window in the bathroom.

He wraps a towel around my hair scrunching it dry, then helps me stand and wraps a second towel around me.  "Think you can walk?"

"I'll try."

I make it across the room with Julian hand under my elbow and almost crawl back into bed before stopping myself sort and grabbing the bedpost for balance.

"What is it?”  Julian's keeping his voice low.

"Bedspread.  Still has ashes on it."

"Of course."  He pulls off the top layer of begging and tosses it to the side before pausing.  "Did massaging your scalp help before? I can -”

"It did."

"Oh, good."  He pushes the pillows aside, settles himself at the head of the bed, and places a single pillow in front of him, before extending his hand to me, half of a smile playing on his lips.  "I'll be quiet and keep doing that."

"Julian -"  Part of me wants to protest.  We should be out looking for something - anything - that would clear Julian's name, not tending to my body's foibles.  But, I'm hurting still, or I suppose again, as the worst of the pain had receded until the Lazaret was mentioned. And I doubt I'd remain upright for long unless without clutching the bedpost.  I close my fingers around his and settle myself onto my back with my eyes closed. Julian's fingers work over my temples and down to jaw, lightly at first, and then with more pressure.

"Tell me if something makes it worse instead of better," he whispers.

"Feels good so far. Great really."

His fingers pause for a moment and fabric rustles as he leans over and pressed a light kiss to my forehead, before wordlessly continuing to work his fingers back in my hair and then down to the base of my skull.  I concentrate on my breathing and the sensation of his hands, letting the pain fade to the back corners of my consciousness.

There's a knock on the door.  And a soft greeting. "It's just me.  All's well." The door creaks open. I push myself up on my elbows.  Portia has a balanced with one hand and her forehead and a bundle of clothing tucked under her upper arm.  "Oho, what have we here?” She starts to giggle, then stops herself, returning her voice to a whisper. "I grabbed a bit of food and borrowed some clothes for Ilya.  Easier to sneak him around if he'll pass for a servant at twenty paces." She set the tray down on the table then thrusts the bundle of cloth at Julian. "Also, Ilyushka, you smell like a bar.  Go take a bath. I've got Dema."

"You're -"  He starts to protest then stops himself.  "Okay." Another quick kiss to my forehead, and he climbs of the bed, disappearing back into the bathroom.  I lay back against the pillow as Portia sits on the edge of the bed. She looks down at me, blue eyes twinkling merrily.

"Made up, have we?”  Her voice is soft, low, and doesn't hurt my head.  Ilya's fingers have done their job, the worst of it is gone now.  I grin, and she smiles knowingly, speaking more when I don't wince at her first sentence.  "Sit up. Have some tea, and I'll find you something a bit more substantial to wear."

There's a cup of fragrant, steaming tea in my hands as soon as I have myself upright.  Behind the bathroom door, there's a splash and a sigh as Julian sinks into the bath. Portia shakes her head and starts for the wardrobe, digging through it until she finds something that meets her definition of "a bit more substantial."  She comes back with a nightshirt of pale blue cotton batiste. The cut appears comfortable than alluring, but the corners of her mouth are turned up in a grin.

"I think we're done searching for the day.  And this will look cute on you." She shakes the fabric out with one of her winning smiles.

The nightshirt is unadorned except for a row of clasps down the front, but as fine as the fabric is, it will _hint_ at quite a bit.  Probably as much or more than the slinkiest of silk negligees.  Not precisely what I want to sit around in while sipping tea. But then, there's still the heavier cotton robe draped across the back of the sofa.  She trades me the shirt for the tea cup, and discreetly steps aside to refill the cup, while I change into the shirt and layer the robe over it. Portia gives me an appraising glance as I settle in the sofa, then reaches out, loosens the lapels of the robes, and undoes the top three buttons of the shirt.  

I roll my eyes at her and have another sip of tea - it's a comforting blend: chamomile, lavender, and sweet melissa over some medicinal herbs that I don't recognize immediately.  "You approve of making up then."

"I think you'd be good for him."  She poured herself a cup of tea from generously sized teapot and picks up a petite sandwich from the tray.  "Or more accurately, he might _be good_ for you."

"Me?  Be good?"  Julian had gotten the bathroom door open without Portia noticing.  He's wearing the palace livery, just not very well. The shirt hangs unbuttoned around his chest, with one side caught in the waistband of the trousers, and the jacket is nowhere to be seen.  His hair is roughly dried and curling in multiple wild directions around his face, but he's already replaced his eyepatch. "Certainly not. Unrepentant rascal." He folds himself into a chair and reaches for a sandwich.  

Portia rolls her eyes.  "Anyway. Dema, even if your headache is clearing up, I think we should stop for the day.  We all need a rest after that. I can make excuses for you to Milady. She understands headaches.  And I can either smuggle Ilya back to my cottage and fold him up in a closet, or -” She shrugs dramatically.  "If you want to, you can hide him in here overnight."

"Umm, wouldn't it be safer if I left the palace entirely for the night?"

I shake my head.  "We'd just have to get you back in without anyone noticing."

"Besides, no one who's looking for you would expect you to be here.  With the person who's tasked with finding you."

"That's - that's good logic."

"Okay then."  Portia grins. If she were a cat her tail would be twitching with pride.  Or possibly swishing back and forth in anticipation of a successful kill. "I should go and see to Milady.  I'll bring up dinner in an hour or so. But I'll just leave it outside if the door and knock. You know, in case you're not hungry, or sleeping, or something like that..."

"Pasha!"  Julian is blushing.  Not badly, but there's color in his cheeks.  

Portia gets up from the sofa and musses his hair without a word.  She winks at me, and makes her exit without further comment, careful to open the door no more than necessary.  

"I should probably lock the door, I guess."  Julian scrambles out of the chair. I hear him turning the key in the lock as I experimentally nibble at one of the sandwiches.  It's cucumber and cream cheese, a mild flavor intended to avoid provoking nausea. Julian returns and sure next to me on the sofa, flinging an arm out along the back edge.  He tilts his head back and closes his eyes. "I could rest a bit."

I set the sandwich aside.  I'm not really hungry, and I don't want to risk the nausea coming back.  The tea I finish, then I curl up on my side, head on Julian's thigh. "Me too.  Didn't sleep too well."

"I'm sorry, darling."  His fingers run through my hair again.  

"You don't have to keep apologizing."

"I just - well - how's your head feeling?”

"Better.  Not great, but better."

"Think a bit longer of a lie down would help?"

"You're the doctor."  I like where I am, even if it's not the most comfortable position.

"My professional opinion is that it would."

"Who was Asra's dead lover?”  My head throbs again even as I say the words, but Julian’s fingers are still in my hair, and I don’t feel threatened by the phrase, not like I did before.  According to Asra, he and I had been lovers, but I'm not dead, just memory impaired.

Julian is quiet for a moment.  “That’s, it is, that’s something else that I don’t remember.”  His fingers brush over my face then trail down my neck to my shoulder, nudging aside the fabric.  “It would explain a lot.”

“What was he like then?”

“He was -”  Soft fingertips slid under my jaw then ghost their way back to my cheekbones, smoothing gently over my closed eyes.  “Always holding something of himself back even while he was flailing around, grasping for anything, anyone to hold on to.  Almost like he was afraid, terrified really. I probably shouldn’t have . . . ” His voice trails off and his hand works back to my shoulder, kneading at the muscles there.  “You’re still as tense as you can be.” He shifts. “Go lay down on the bed. I’ll rub your back.” 

What he's describing of Asra sounds familiar, and clearly enough the subject remains painful for him.  I can't argue that the prospect of a back rub sounds anything other than good. Wonderful, really. I shed the robe as I walk around the sofa.  There's an almost panicked sound from Ilya, which turns into a purr as this hands close on my hips from behind and pull me back against him. "Beautiful."

"I'm not -”

"Don't argue.  Not about that."  His voice is a low rumble in my ear and then his lips are pressed against the side of my neck.  "You won't convince me otherwise." Hands sooth up my sides. Hands on my hip spin me around to where Julian is on his knees.  He leans his head against my stomach. "Let me take care of you."

I twist my fingers into his hair and run a thumb over the brow above his good eye.  “God you’re a sweet one. Arsa's a fool.”

"What?"  He looks up at me, confusion on his features.

"To not appreciate you."

"I -”  He presses his forehead back against my stomach.  "I don't know if that's fair. Everything was so . . ."  His voice trails off, and his hands tighten on my hips before loosening and sliding around to my front.  "Enough of that though." He starts undoing the buttons that fasten the thin shirt, pressing kisses to my skin as he does.  "Bet I can make the last of that headache go away."

“Oh really?”

“Yeah.”  Another button unfastened.  His tongue traces down the middle of my torso and circles my navel slowly.

“Magic mouth?”

“Tongue.  Mouth. Hands.”  His lips find my hipbone as his fingers work into my ass, and my hands tighten in his hair.  “Not magic though. Science. Orgasms kill headaches.”

“I’ll take science.  Oh.” He lifts me enough to turn me around and set me on the edge of the bed.  The remaining clasps of my shirt are rapidly undone, and he pushes me back on the bed, letting his hands trail across my breasts and down my stomach, until he's kneeling between my legs, lips trailing slowly up my inner thigh, starting from my knee, pausing to nip and suck.  One of my hands says in his hair and the other grabs the sheet beside me, clutching the fabric as his my legs over his shoulders and drags his tongue along my cunt. His tongue might actually be magic - teasing at first, circling the place where I really want it, retreating to my thigh and then darting back again, and once the taunting stops, I'm worked up enough that it doesn't take me long to come, legs tightening around Julian's head, his hands gripping my hips.

I catch my breath for a moment while Julian stands up from the floor.  Then I sit up and wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him to me. He grabs my arms and pulls me up, pressing my head face to his chest, as his erect cock nudges my stomach.  I kiss his sternum. “I want you.” His hands slide down my back and under my hips lifting me up to where our eyes can meet and our noses can touch, and I kiss him on the tip of his nose, on his lips, and repeat myself.  “I want you, Julian.”

“Do you really?”

Another kiss and a hand through his hair.  “Yes, Julian, I do.”

His lips find my neck, then teeth nip at my ear.  He turns around and drops back on the bed, taking me with him, and settling me on top of him.  “I believe you.” One hand traces around my side and curls around my breast, thumb circling my nipple.  I lean over him and kiss his face again, working along his jaw, down his neck, and to his chest. He never got his shirt properly on or off, and I push the fabric back from his broad shoulders.  "Teach me how to touch you."

"Anyway you want to."  His reply is a breath and he half sits up, stomach muscles tensing beneath me, letting me pull the shirt off him and toss it aside.  

His hands are still on my hips.  I take his left hand - the branded one - and fold his fingers through mine, so that the back of my hand is pressed to his palm.  "Show me, Julian." I kiss the tattoo on the back of his hand, then touch it to my forehead. "Please."

He smiles, eyes closed and draws our hands along each side of his neck.  “Here, you already know, hard as you please. You can’t hurt me. Not with this curse.”  He trails my fingers down his chest. I lean down to kiss his neck, pinning our hands between us and working my lips and teeth along his throat.  His moan turns into a groan when I lift my head and catch his bottom lip between my teeth. “Show me more, sugar,” I whisper.

A soft breath and he traces my hand along the left side of his chest, circling around his nipple.  I mirror the motions on his left side. Press a kiss to his sternum before finding his right nipple with my mouth.  His hips squirm underneath me and his right hand tightens on my ass. “Something you like?”

“Yes.”  More of a gasp than an answer.  I shift around, right leg next to him with most of my weight on it, left leg between his, just pressing against his cock.  His hand squeezes mine as I repeat what I did before. His hips twitch against mine, the hand on my backside holding me tight against him.  “Good.” I pause with my forehead against his chest to catch my own breath, and he seems to take a moment to do the same, flexing my hand and fingers in his.

Julian flattens my hand against the flat plane of his stomach.  “My sides really are ticklish, so. . .”

“Not there.”  Another kiss to the gorgeous bridge of his nose.  “Got it, handsome.” I pull my hand out of his and slid it up the center of his torso.  His left hand buries itself in my hair as I press my face into his stomach, trailing kisses closer to the waistband of the pants he’s still wearing.  Undo the buttons along the fly with both hands and bury my nose in the short curls around his sex, in the scent of him, just for a moment. “Should get these off you.”  He lifts his hips cooperatively, then laughs as I struggle to peel the fitted fabric off of his muscular thighs. I roll off of him, giggling at the absurdity.

“I got it.”  He kisses the top of my head with another laugh and strips the pants off, tossing them to the floor.  “Now, uh, where were we?” He grabs my arms and falls back on the bed, pulling me with him.  

“Mmm, somewhere good.”  I run my hands through his hair again and press my forehead to his, before starting to work my way back down his body.      

* * *

I run my thumbs over Julian’s cheekbones and smooth his hair back from his face.  “Can I see you?”

The right side of his lips crooks up in a half smile.  “Who do you think you’re looking at right now?”

“Without your eyepatch.”

“It’s not pretty.”

“I’ve seen eye wounds before.”  One of the neighbors had lost an eye last year.  He found a doctor to do the initial clean up, but Asra and I had been put in charge of follow up care.  He couldn't afford the doctor's fees.

He closes the one eye that I can see.  “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Promise not to panic?”

I kiss the tip of his nose.  “Promise.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t make a move to take the patch off, and after a moment, I slide my fingers under the strap and push the eyepatch back over his head.  His eyes are still closed, but the socket isn’t empty, nor is the eye behind the lid swollen. I kiss each eyelid. “Julian, Ilya, I promise, you’re beautiful.”

He sighs and opens both eyes for me.  His right eye is intact, iris the same shade of grey as the left, but it’s surrounded by bright carmine red.  The same red that Asra described the eyes of plague victims turning in the past.  

I trail my fingers over his face, trying to reassure him that I'm not disturbed.  “What happened?”

“That’s, uh, another question that I don’t know the answer to.”  His eyes flutter shut, and I press my lips against each eye again then snuggle back down against his chest and tuck my head into the crook of his neck.  "There are so many of those . . ."

"We're going to find answers."

He sighs and runs his hand down my spine.  "We may not like what we find."

“Sleep, my handsome man.  Just sleep for right now.”

The motion of his hand my back slows along with his breathing, as he drifts off.  I sigh softly and continue tracing my fingers along his collarbone, under to follow.    

I can fake confidence.  Very well. I’m good at it.  At least for a limited amount of time, until everything falls apart anyway.  But I'm scared. Terrified, if I'm honest with myself. The more hints of the past I uncover, the more I'm not sure that I want to remember my past.  The comment Lucio's ghost made, about whether Julian was finally ready to share, well, it further confirmed my suspicion that there had been something between us.  But it also raised questions about just how I had been involved in the events of three years ago and just whatever it was that Asra had stolen from him. And this headache!  I haven't had one so awful, or one that lasted so long, in at least a year. No, even those haven't been so bad. And those had always occurred when I recovered some previously unknown wealth of information.  A set of spells, just the right combination of herbs, that moment when I heard a language being spoken at the dock and all the grammar and vocabulary slammed into me. Never the corresponding events, never _how_ I knew something, that remained just out of reach, too painful, too hot to touch.  What memory had Lucio's words and Julian’s mention of the Lazaret triggered that needed to be blocked so thoroughly?

I lift my head and look at Julian.  He’s sleeping soundly. His hair falls over his eyes and one hand is curled beside his mouth.  He looks younger than he is, even with the dark circles around his eyes. Young and very, very innocent.  I stroke his hair gently and settle back against his shoulder, closing my eyes and waiting for sleep to come to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Especially those of you who are sticking with me through these erratic updates.


	18. Sorry, But I Don't Recall the Crime, My Memory Has Me Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Portugal, the Man, "Creep in a T-Shirt"

Portia lets us sleep in the next morning.  The sun is high enough in the sky that the light is indirect when I open my eyes, roused by a loud knock at the door and a shouted warning that it’s her, and we have two minutes to get decent or she’s coming in anyway.  I’m still laying on top of Julian. He blinks his eyes in confusion and sits up as I roll off him, grabbing for the robe that I abandoned on the back of the sofa.

“Morning.”  He yawns, and I pick his pants up off the floor and toss them to him.  There’s another knock at the door and he seems to wake up a little more, swinging his long legs over the edge of the bed and pulls them on.  I knot the sash around my waist and stumble to the door, opening for Portia, who’s carrying a tray with pastries and an extra large pot of coffee.

“Wakey, wakey,” she chirps, just as chipper as ever.  “It’s nearly noon.”

Ilya groans and holds his head in his hands.  Portia grins as she pours a cup of thick black coffee for him and offers it to him.  “I still remember how you like it.” He takes the cup and lifts his head, blinking sleepily at her.  Portia freezes for a moment, then steps back. “Ilya, your eye!”

“Oh shit!”  He starts, nearly spilling the coffee across his bare chest.  “No, no, no, Pasha it’s okay, I swear.”

I put a hand on Portia’s shoulder.  She’s trembling. “Really. It is.”

“What happened to you?”

“Well, um.”  He grins up at her and takes a drink of coffee.  “I don’t exactly know. But I’m still kicking, so...”

Portia sighs and reaches out to touch his hair, pushing the long bangs back from his face.  “What did you get yourself into, brother mine?”

“The usual.  Trouble.”

“And now we’ve got to get you out of it.”  She turns back to the tray on the table and grabs herself a pastry.  "Eat up. No sense in trying to problem solve on an empty stomach."

Julian bolts the coffee, stretches his back, and finds his shirt in the floor before meandering around to the sofa to join me.  Portia has pulled up a chair opposite the table and is working on a mug of tea. I'm settled in with coffee and another one of the heavenly almond pastries, waiting for the caffeine to kick in.  

"What's the connection you think?”  Portia muses.

"What do you mean?”  Julian is starting his second cup of coffee, and I suspect it'll take three before he's good for much.

"Between you and Lucio?  Being in his room, with that ghost triggered one of your headaches - I guess, I'll call it a memory headache.”

“Then the same thing happened when I mentioned about the Lazaret,” Julian adds.  It’s more a mumble than a real statement, entirely different from his usual conversation style.

“Okay, so, I don't know, seems like there could be a connection there.  For that matter, Ilya, if you're getting the same kind of headaches, then you're involved as well.  And the way that ghost talked to the both of you - puppy, dove? What the hell was that?” Once Portia gets going, she’s easily as wordy as her brother.

"I, uh -”  Julian sits up and rubs at the back of his neck then pushes his hand through his hair flipping more of it over his eyes.  "I, uh, knew Lucio for a long time. Back when he was mercenary and lost his arm. As for Dema, well, he'd always hit on anyone who caught his eye.  Or maybe she and I -”

"Yeah, yeah, you two were together - you both forget - blah.  You're such a dumbass sometimes, Ilyushka. I mean, how the hell do you forget-”

"Lucio is a creepy fuck of a ghost."  I interrupt Portia's commentary before Julian can turn any redder.  I rub my upper arms trying to push away any memory of the ghostly claws.  I suppose I should be glad that so far the Count had limited himself to touching me over my clothes.  Fuck that.

"And don't forget that Milady is also missing memories, just a lot more of them than anyone else."

"Except Dema."  Julian sets his cup down and crosses his arms behind his head, leaning to stretch out his back again.

"The most salient point is that no one remembers exactly how Lucio died.”  I try to get the conversation back on topic and away from sibling squabbles.  “The people who do remember that night, didn't see. Valerius only arrested you because you were there."

"You're adorable when you use words like salient.  You know that."

"Oh, brother,"  Portia groans. "The other courtiers are pretty fishy if you ask me."

"I can't see any of them acting alone, except maybe -"

"- Valdemar."  Julian uncrosses his hands from behind his head and leans forward on the table with a groan.  "They have absolutely no scruples about killing. But spontaneous combustion is really too tidy for their style."

"How can spontaneous combustion be too tidy?”

"Valdemar likes to have an intact body.  For, um, reasons. Burning doesn't leave much to work with."

Portia shudders and looks slightly disgusted.  She shakes her to dismiss the thought. "What if they acted together?  They could be covering for each other by pushing Milady to believe Julian did it."

"Valerius suggested that as much as he suggested anything."

"Ugh.  You didn't get anything really useful from him, did you?”

"Just more questions."  I suspect that some of what Valerius is keeping to himself would be helpful, but I don't think he has a much better grasp of Lucio's death than we do.  "Do you think Lucio knows who killed him? His ghost certainly didn't think it was you."

"What ghosts do and don't know is outside my area of expertise.  And I don't want to - I mean I don't want you to go back there. Either of you."  He pours himself another cup of coffee. Portia peels an orange and divides sections between the three of us.

"What do you think he meant by 'not for long'?”

"It was about being trapped in that form.  Could he be trying to bring himself back from the dead?”

"Can't be done."  Julian pops a piece of orange in his mouth and talks around it.  "Dead is dead is dead."

"What did he mean about Asra stealing a new body for his dead lover then?”

Julian shrugs.  "That's another question for Asra."

"You said he was doing some sort of magic with blood."  The image from my dream the other night of Asra cutting into Julian's palm and letting the blood drip onto the cardinal points of a sigil floats behind my eyes.  Julian nods, rubbing his hand as he does. "If it were possible to create a new body, whether to bring someone back from the dead or for someone who was ill to take over, it would have to involve something at least as powerful as blood magic.  I mean, I had to use a blood spell to coax Lucio onto materializing at all last night."

"You did what?  Dema!”

"It's okay, Julian.  I time limited it." At least, I think I did.  I hope I did. I don’t care for what it means if I didn’t.

"Have you heard of spells that would bring someone back from the dead?”  Portia asks.

I pause and hope that some arcane information about corporeality, resurrection, and enfleshment will just materialize in my consciousness, as information so often does with no explanation of when, how, or where I learned it.  "No. But researching might be a start. Maybe if I knew what kind of magic was being used. But-" I groan and ball my hands up in frustration. "There's no time to be indirect."

"So, we corner all the courtiers and beat it out of them?"  Portia runs her hands together. She's joking - I think. But there's a glint in her eyes that makes me wonder.  "I'm sure Maz would help with that."

"No."  Julian shakes his head.  "I don't want you near them.  Not you, not Dema, not Mazelinka."

"What about Volta?”

"What about her?"

"Do you think she might give us information?  She doesn't seem as bad as the others."

"We could offer her food.  Maybe? She keeps the servants running all night bringing snacks to her chambers."  Portia doesn't look quite convinced by the idea. "But, they all say that she's actually nice to them."

Julian shakes his head, then sets his coffee aside and stretches out as much as possible on the sofa, with his head resting in my lap.  "What if instead of showing that someone else did it, we prove that I didn't do it? I mean, if I can find evidence to convince myself of that, then certainly it will convince the Countess."

"You can't use magic, can you?”

He looks up at me and touches his throat.  "Other than this? Don't even want to."

"And is there any scientific explanation for the spontaneous combustion of a person?”

"Not that I know of."

Portia catches where my logic is going and grins.  "So you couldn't have done it! That wasn't a natural fire."

Julian gnaws at his bottom lip, looking thoughtful.  "I suppose, but that doesn't explain why I was there.  And I was there."

Portia stands and starts clearing the table.  "I'll work on Milady. Try to get the question of how the fire started in the first place in her mind.  Maybe you two could work in the library? Ilya might find something in his desk. And you probably won't be bothered there.  Since I have the keys. Now. If something happens, go to my cottage. Through the maze then straight back. Dema, you remember, right?"

“Oh, the fixer upper one out past the orchard?  That’s yours now? Nice, sis.”

“And fixed up nicely, I’ll have you know.  Get dressed. Back in half an hour.”

* * *

Portia leads us to the library, peering around corners as she goes for passers by, even though I've glamoured Julian's hair to appear black and tossed it over his eyepatch.  She unlocks the door quickly, deft hands finding the multiple keys and turning them in the locks. Julian walks into the room slowly, pushing his hair out of his eyes as the glamour fades.  Sunlight from the windows catches the highlights, making it look even redder than before. He looks around the room and turns slowly, as if in a trance.

“Alright, you two, I’m going to lock the door behind you.  I should be back in a few hours.”

The keys turn loudly in the locks as Portia secures us inside the library.  Julian is still standing in a ray of sunshine, the pale cream of the palace livery a stark change from his usual black on black, but it suits him just as well.  He looks a little lost in the moment, like he's soaking in information directly from the surroundings and it's a bit too much to comprehend. I take one of his hands in mine and squeeze his fingers.

"Come back to me, Julian."  Asra's said the same thing to me so many times, patiently gripping my hand.

"Sorry."  Julian shakes his head.  "Sorry, I spent a lot of time in here."

"It's okay."

He walks across the floor to the pile of pillows that I had curled up in the other day to try and decipher his journals.  "Asra worked here. He had a veritable fortress of books stacked around him. And he napped all the time." He pauses and looks back at me.  "Does he still do that?"

"He does."  I'm bad about napping too, especially when I'm having trouble sleeping at night.  It's a wonder we manage to keep the shop running on any sort of schedule.

Julian crosses the room, to the little niche that his desk was tucked into.  "Tidier than how I left it. At least, how I think I left it." He picks up one of the journals and thumbs through it before setting it aside with a visible shudder.  "Nothing but bad memories there." He picks up the folded letter next, reads the first couple lines, then sinks into the chair and leans over the desk, head cradled in his hands as his shoulders start to shake.  I run my hands along his shoulders, trying to soothe whatever emotion has taken hold of him.

"She was eleven when I left home."  His voice, when he finally speaks, is choked.  "Eleven! And I didn't see her again until the other day.  I've got to be the worst brother in the world. It's almost worse that she's willing to forgive me everything."  He snaps his fingers. "Just like that."

"Julian."  I lean over him, pressing my lips to the crown of his head.  "She loves you. You're still her brother."

"So she finds me, just to lose me again?"

"We're going to sort this out.  You're not a murderer."

Julian picks up the journal his was thumbing through and then tosses it to the side.  "Are you sure about that? Maybe not Lucio, but . . .” His voice trails off as I run my fingers through his hair.  His shoulders slump and he collapses over the desk, head in his arms. “Why do you have such faith in me?”

“Just do.”  I can’t explain it, but I don’t feel any need to try either, so I stay quiet and rub his shoulders until he lifts his head off the desk.  He twists in the chair and I lean over and touch my lips to his forehead.  

“Thank you.”  His voice is a breath more than speech.  He closes his eyes for a moment, then blinks them back open.  “I should sort through all this, I suppose. See if anything here truly is important.  Maybe you could look through the books? See if you can find anything about how to magic someone back from the dead?”

“I’ll see what I can do.  Not really sure where to start.”  I ruffle his hair again for good measure as he goes back to the papers stacked on the desk.

It takes me a while to orient myself in the library.  The collection is impression, both in breadth and depth.  The shelves go to the ceiling. There are books well beyond my reach, but there are also ladders attached with rollers that make them easy to move.  The section for books on magic is in a dark corner toward the back, and I have to summon a light before I can begin to make out the titles. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t know where to start, but I am nearly certain that raising the dead would require blood.  And well, that’s the only lead I have.

The majority of the magic tomes are covered in a thick layer of dust.  When I find the shelf with books on the less respectable practices, I’m surprised to find that these books are less dusty than the other.  They’ve been neglected, but while the others appear to have sat untouched for a decade or more (some are complete with cobwebs!), the ones with titles that suggest what I might need only have a light coating of dust.  I gather the ones that look most promising and retreat to Asra’s pile of cushions. It’s under a window, and the afternoon sunlight pouring in creates the perfect space to curl up and read.

I scan the content pages of the books that have them and set several aside that appear to be mostly dedicated to describing the acts associated with sects that use blood magic in the most inflammatory language possible.  Heresiology is not what I need at the moment. A book in the middle of the stack looks more promising. It’s ancient, hand written, and lacks a table of contents, but unlike the others, it’s an actual book of spells. I thumb through the book, scanning the descriptions for any key words.

The sun is getting low in the sky when Julian plops down next to me and draps an arm around my shoulders.  I set the book on my knees and turn my face to him. “Find anything?”

With a heavy sigh, he shows me an empty palm, then with a mischievous grin, closes his hand and opens it again to reveal an iron key.  I roll my eyes at the trick. As he makes the key disappear again, presumably to a pocket somewhere in his coat. “What’s that for?” 

He shrugs, then pulls me closer to him.  "Not sure. But you ever just get a sense that something is exactly what you're looking for."

"That's happened."

"Yes, well, that and none of the papers were much use.  Research notes. _Fruitless_ research notes for that matter.  Barren. As useful as a mirage in the bloody desert.  Not to mention that a few were, in fact, bloody." He lays down next to me and settles his head in my lap, looking up at me through the hair falling over his face.  His eyepatch is missing, presumably removed to make reading easier. "This key was the only other thing left. Any luck with the books?”

"This one might have some useful information in it."

"Mmm . . . Don't let me stop you.  Just going to close my eyes for a few minutes."  He snuggles deeper into the cushions, and tilts his head to the side.  I trail my finger done the center of his nose, winning a smile from him before returning to the book.

I flip through several more pages of spells and symbols, annotated with dense notes about the theory behind why they just might work and stern precautions about their use.  An illuminated page with colored calligraphy and gilt lettering introduces a new chapter: On Interaction with the Spirits of the Departed.  

My reading slows, and I turn the pages with care, trying to commit the sigils to memory - at least, passive memory, enough to recognize them should I see them again.  These are significantly more complex than the one I used to speak with Lucio. One allows for summoning a specific spirit to a location. Another provides a means to anchor a ghost to a specific location.  Quite reasonably, it's paired with a banishing spell.  

A thin scrap of parchment marks the next page.  The palimpsest is covered with notes in a very familiar script.  The same script that labels many of the bottles and boxes in the shop.  The same that leaves notes for me in random locations - ones that I'll surely find, but won't expect - when a certain someone has wandered away.  Asra.  

Underlined and circled at the bottom is a single word:  almost.  

I set the note aside.  Underneath it there page is taken up by an intricate diagram, one that would be impossible to recreate without proper tools, no small amount of skill, and significant time.  I run my finger up the page to the heading: Possession of a Body.

I shouldn't be surprised, not when Julian has told me that Asra was using blood and with what Lucio's ghost had shrieked about Asra stealing a body from him.  But still, I didn't expect to find tangible evidence. Perhaps I didn't want to believe that Asra had really been involved in something so potentially dangerous and so deeply unethical as inviting a spirit to possess the body of someone else.

No. I don't want to think about it.

I fold the parchment note back in the book and set it aside.  Later. I'll deal with that later. For now, I gently lift Julian's head and replace my thigh with a small cushion.  He mumbles in protest, but settles back as soon as I'm curled up next to him. My head's on his chest; it's his turn to be a pillow for a bit.

"Mmm... Taking a break?"  He lifts a hand and trails his fingers through my hair.

"Just resting my eyes."

"You should do that.  Getting late anyway."

As soon as my eyes shut, there’s a noise from outside of the library, followed by a loud exclamation.  “Oh, sorry Milady! Slippery fingers again!”

“It’s quite alright, Portia.”  The countess’s dulcet voice is at a normal level, but carries easily through the door.  

Julian bolts upright and scrambles out of the floor before reaching back down to pull me to my feet.  “Shit. Shit! What do we do? I know, you hide, then when Nadia comes in, run. She’ll be too busy arresting me to notice you.”  I shake my head and he groans. “Don’t you understand? You’ll hang with me.”

“No.  I’m not leaving you.”

He spins around.  “Maybe we could get out the window?  You can’t, like, turn into a giant bird or something?  Uh, can you?”

“Yeah, no.”  I pull us over to where a shelf will hide us from direct view of the door and let my awareness drift around the room.  Portia said there were portals and passages all through the palace. If I can just find one of those. Keys turn in the locks again, tumblers falling into place.  How many were there again? Then . . . there it is! And it’s close to where we are. I pull Julian with me to the wall and touch a symbol engraved there. Unlike the portal leading the Lucio’s wing, the magic of this one is Asra’s.  If my luck holds, it’ll lead to my shop and safety.

The wall seems to open, edges glowing around the passageway.  Not to my shop, but into the garden with the willow tree and the fountain.  It’ll do. Especially since I can hear the door opening. I shove Julian through, hissing for him to go to Portia’s cottage, and close the portal before he can insist that I follow.  Portia and I together should be able to keep the Countess busy enough that she won’t be looking for him.

Beyond, I hear the mechanisms of the door turning as it opens, and I step out from behind the shelf, trying to look like I had simply been looking for a book.  Nadia is as collected and graceful as every, one step behind her Portia is wringing her hands in worry. “Oh, Countess, hello.”

“Dema, dear, it’s good to see that you’re feeling better.  Portia told me that a headache simply knocked you down last night after visiting the Count’s old wing.”

“Thank you, my lady.  I thought a quiet day working in the library might make sense.”

“Yes.”  She looks over to Julian’s desk, where the papers and portfolios are now arranged into haphazard stacks.  “Did you happen to find anything?”

“No.”  I shake my head, trying to mime disappointment.  “I thought I might try to research some magic that would account for state of Lucio’s chambers.”

“Portia did mention that the burn marks didn’t look like the usual pattern for a fire.” 

“Not at all.”  I shake my head.  “I think that only some sort of magic could explain it.”

Nadia presses her lips together considering the statement.  She seems about to say something when the chamberlain enters the library followed by a very familiar figure.  One with a lot of explaining to do. “My lady, you have another visitor - the magician Asra.”

Nadia turns and Asra bows to her, eyes twinkling as he does.  “Your Excellency.”

Her head tilts slightly to the side, and while I can’t see her expression, I feel the contemplating look that she gives Asra.  Asra only smiles at her, one of his perfect winning smiles that could charm the wings off a butterfly. She recovers with the smallest shake of her head.  “I am pleased to finally meet my favorite magician’s mentor; although . . . well, nevermind.” She glances back at me. “Both of you will dine with me this evening?”

“Of course, Countess.”  Asra accepts for both of us, not I would expect that there is any other option.  

“Very well.  And should you wish to stay the night, I believe the guest room beside your apprentice’s is available.  Dema, would you take your master with you? I’ll send Portia presenting with dining attire for the both of you.”

Portia shoots me a questioning look as the Countess sweeps out of the library.  

“It’s okay, Portia.”  I emphasize okay. “I know my way.”

Alone in the library, Asra quickly closes the distance between us, pulling me into a tight hug.  “I got worried when you didn’t come back last night. Or today. Then I realized you’d be here.” His fingers trace my jawline, ever so gently, and without thinking I tilt my head into his hand, as his thumb brushes over my cheek.  “Are you alright? There’s nothing I wouldn’t do you? You know that?”

Nothing he wouldn’t do?  I believe him. I’m not sure I want to, but I do.  Even with his eyes as gentle as they can be, I believe that there truly might not be anything that he wouldn’t do.  I reach up and touch his cheek.  

“I’m fine, Asra.”  Should I drag him over the pile of books I had gathered and ask him to explain the note now?  Perhaps not until I know a little more, when I have a better chance of pinning him down and avoiding his deflections.  I take his hand in mine. “Come on, when the Countess says dress for dinner, she really means it.”

“Oh, I remember,” he says with a smile.  “She always put together the best looks for her guests as well.”

My rooms are not so far from the library.  We walk in silence, Asra seemingly content to just hold my hand.  I close the door behind us with a sigh, happy for the relative privacy.

“Tell me about the maid?  Portia, I think? I don’t recognize her from before.”

“She’s Julian’s sister.”

“His sister?”  Asra looks surprised for a moment.  “I wasn’t expecting that.”

I catch him up on the prior day, leaving out most of the details.  His face falls as I describe searching Lucio’s wing, especially when I tell him that the ghost was able to touch me.

“He shouldn’t be able to have that much of a physical presence.”

“You don’t sound surprised that he’s there.”

Asra shakes his head.  “No, he was never one to let go, not of anything.  I can’t imagine that he would accept being dead. And, with everything that happened then . . .”

“Asra, what did happen?”

He closes his eyes, expression becoming so melancholy that I can’t stop myself from cradling his face in my hands.  “I don’t remember exactly what I did. Really. I don’t. I wish that I did.” He leans forward, pressing his forehead to mine.  “Maybe I could protect you better if I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I caught up to only get behind again? Only the future can tell!
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and I'd love to hear from you in the comments. :)


	19. Some Begged, Some Borrowed, Some Stolen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Nick Cave, "Do You Love Me?"
> 
>  
> 
> **See end note for trigger warnings.**

_Nine years ago.  Asra._

Overall, the noise of the Masquerade was ambient, but everytime something crashed, or a person shouted with glee, the girl startled.  She’s crouched in front of his makeshift stall, running a finger along the edge of one of the masks he had laid out on a shawl, tracing the delicate patterns that Muriel had carved into the light wood.  Her hand shook a little as she did, and when she extended her arm, the long sleeve pulled back, exposing a bandage tied around her wrist.   

Finally she took a deep breath, looked up, and met his eyes.  “These are beautiful. Did you make them?”

“A friend and I did.”

“You’re talented.”  She touched her pocket.  “My aunt said I should get one from you . . . for the rest of the week.”  

“Your aunt?”

She inclined her head to the shop next to them.  “Anna, she’s my father’s aunt actually, but I just moved here . . . with her.”  He looked again at her face, searching out a resemblance to the old witch who had kept him fed when he didn’t manage to sell enough trinkets and card readings, and found it in the girl’s blue eyes.  But where Anna's always twinkled with mirth, her eyes were distant with melancholy.  

“Anna’s a good person.”  

“She said the same about you.  Well, good kid was the exact phrase."  

“Do you know which one you want?”

“I don’t.”  A brass band passed by, loud and clanging.  She jumped again and looked back over her shoulder.  Asra shifted over on the blanket he was sitting on and patted the space next to him.  

“Sit with me.  Until you decide.”

She stepped carefully around the masks and sat down, pressing her back to the wood slat fence behind him and pulling her knees up to her chest.  “Thanks. Anna told me I should get out of the house, but I’ve only been here a few days, and this -” She runs her hands over her face and back through her hair.  “Masquerade, or whatever it is, it’s very . . . overwhelming.”

“It can be.  I don’t really like crowds either.”  

She leaned her head back against the fence and sat with her hands pressed over her eyes.  Asra watched her. She was around his age, give or take a year from twenty. He didn’t notice that Faust had crawled out of his shirt until she had extended her head to the girl and licked her cheek.  The girl jumped, then looked at the snake and extended her hand, smiling for the first time. “Hi there. Who are you?”

Faust extended her tongue, sniffing the girl’s fingertips before butting her head against her hand.

“Her name is Faust.”

“Hi, Faust.”  She stroked the snake’s head and trailed her fingers down Faust’s sinuous form.  “I’m Dema.”

Faust turned her head back to Asra.  _Friend?_   Asra doesn't have many friends.  Really just Muriel. Lots of acquaintances, but letting people close - well, if he let them too close to him, one day they might not come back.  No, there _would_ come a day when they wouldn't come back.  Like leaves blown away by the wind in autumn.  Better to keep acquaintances as acquaintances and never try to bring them closer, no matter how many times Faust whispered “friend” hopefully in his ear.  

“Maybe, Faust.”

“Oh, does she talk to you?”

“She does.”

“That must be nice.  To not be alone.”  

Asra suppressed a bitter laugh.  He'd been alone for so long, even with Faust and Muriel, that he wasn't sure how to do anything else.  She leaned back over the masks and picked one up absently. “I should probably just choose one. I don’t know.”

Asra shuffled through the contents of his bag and found his deck.  “Here let’s try this.” He shuffled the cards on the shawl laid out in front of him.  “Cut the deck into three parts, then pick one.” She arched an eyebrow at him, then divided the deck and pointed to one stack.  Asra picked that stack of cards back up, dealing them out into a circle. “Choose three.”

Her hand hovered over the cards, then she pressed her lips together and flipped over three in quick sucession: Eight of Cups reversed, Nine of Swords, and the Fool.  It was a melancholy set. Turning away from a path - from a life that is no longer available. Waking into nightmares. And the Fool. An ambiguous card. New beginnings, but unclear ones, stepping off a cliff without knowing whether there’s water or rocks below.

“Well-”  She looked up at him, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.  “That’s not a felicitous reading.”

“You read cards?”

“Some.  I’m not very good.”

“What do they tell you?”

“Little I didn't already know.”  She looked out at the street, away from the cards, and wrung her hands together.  The motions started as nervous and rapidly become violent, right hand twisting the left fingers of her left into contortions that looked increasingly painful.

“They only tell you where you are.  What might be. Not what must be.” He takes one of her hands in his, trying to still the frenetic motions.  “Dema, the future is still yours to decide.”

She turned her face to him, blinking back tears furiously.  “Maybe I shouldn't be allowed to make decisions.” Pulling her hand away from him, she scrambled to her feet and stepped over the display of masks.  “My aunt also told me to tell you to come in for dinner.”

He watched her go, the doorbell of the shop jangling behind her as she fled.  Faust curled around his neck, tongue flickering against his ear. _“Lost?”_   

He reached up and ran his fingers over her smooth scales.  “Yeah. A little.” 

_“Friend.”_

“You seem to think so.”  

Faust flicked his ear again, then nudged her head against against his chin.  _“Hungry.  Eat.”_

“You’re right.”  Asra gathered up the masks, folded them into his shawl, and got up from the street, stretching his arms over his head.  He let himself into the upstairs of the shop, warm and redolent with the scent of spices and peppers. Anna was hovering over a bubbling pot of soup.  

“Asra.”  She smiled in greeting, her eyes almost disappearing into wrinkles.  “Come tell me what else this needs.” She gestured to the pot handing him a spoon and then moving aside to let him adjust the seasoning.  “You met my niece?”

He nodded and crushed a pinch of cumin seeds with the blade of her well worn kitchen knife before adding to the pot along with a pinch of pepper flakes.  “She has your eyes.”

“She has my sister's eyes.  The girl's grandmother.” The old woman sighed and leaned back against the counter, arms folded across her chest.  “Her father brought her to me. An apprentice. Neither my sister or her boy ever showed a lick of talent for anything magical.  This one though . . . she’ll be strong if she comes back to herself.”

“Faust likes her.”  At the mention of her name Faust slid slid out from under Asra’s clothes and flicked in tongue at Anna in a friendly greeting.  

“Ah, would Faust have a go finding the mouse that's gotten into my cabinets?”  Faust touched her tongue to Asra’s cheek and he stroked her head to signal his approval.  She slithered down his arm and leg and then into the bottom cabinets to hunt for the errant rodent.   “Are you planning to go home tonight?”

“No, I thought I'd just curl up beside the shop.  It’s warm enough.”

“Silly child.  You know I'll make you up a place in here.”

Asra smiled.  “I know, Anna.”

* * *

After dinner, Asra went back into the street to try to sell another few masks.  When he returned, Dema was sitting at the table. A bowl of warm water and two piles of bandages - one dirty, one clean - were on the table in front of her.   She looked up as he closed the kitchen door then back down at her arms. Ignoring him, she wrung water from a cloth and dabbed at her arms, hissing as she did.

“Do you want some help?”

Her eyes flashed, and she curled her upper lip.  “No. I'll do it myself.”

Asra sat down across from her.  The water smelled of thyme and grain alcohol.  Her left arm had been slashed repeatedly. The cuts are deeper, jagged, and crossed by a savage tear that looked like a bite mark.  Stitches held the half healed edges together. She looked up, meeting his eyes with a challenge in her own. He didn't look away until she did.

“I -”  She dabbed again at her left arm. A change came over her face as she looked down at the cuts and tears.  Her eyes lost the defiant look and her shoulders began to tremble. “I don't want to hide. To fake being whole.  I, I couldn't . . . It's a relief in a way." Her voice was distant, almost dreamy. Asra stayed silent but kept his eyes on hers, much like he might for a customer during a card reading.  "I don't have the option to hide anymore. To lie. Whether it's to myself or to others."

“You want to be seen.”

"I want to be honest.  No more convolutions, confabulations, convulsions of speech to try to hide what people don’t want to see.  No more trying to make it look like I'm together when I'm actually coming apart."  

“You must have been desperate.”

She glanced down at the water, then her eyes darted back to Asra's, focused and clear once more.  “That's not an awful choice of words." She paused with her right hand folded over the worst of the damage to her left arm.  "But no word really means what I need it to - to explain.”

“I don't need you to explain.”

“You might be the only one.”  She set aside the square of flannel she had been using to clean the cuts, looked over at the clean rolled bandages, and then she brought her blue eyes to his.  “It is easier to let someone help me with this part.” She bit her bottom lip in frustration and glanced away. “Would you?”

“Yes.”  He folded his fingers around hers and squeezed them briefly before picking up a roll of fabric.  He wound it around her arm, starting from the wrist and wrapping down to her elbow before tying it off loosely.

“This is why they sent me.  The apprentice thing is a lie.  I've studied magic formally for four years.  But they think, maybe, just maybe, the famous, infamous Aunt Anna can fix me.  Or maybe they just want me far away from them the next time I shatter into a million pieces.”  She tossed the used bandages into the bowl and held her hand over it. A cloud of steam rose as the water evaporated and then the contents flared and the cotton flannel reduced to ash.  She picked up the bowl, walked to the sink and set it down. “I’ll scald that in the morning. But I’m going to bed now. Try to sleep at least.” She pushed back the curtain over the door leading back to the other rooms, then paused and turned back to him, finding and meeting his gaze.  “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Not looking at me with pity.”

Asra hesitated for a moment, then opened his mouth.  “Dema.”

She stopped and turned back around.  “What?”

“Come out with me?”

She paused, looked into the darkened room beyond, then back to him.  A slow smile spread across her face. “Sure. Why not?”  

The Masquerade wasn’t a bad part of the year.  It was always warm, and when he was little, these were the only two weeks of the year when he had consistently gone to sleep with a full belly.  Food was usually being given away for free, and if there wasn’t enough on offer Asra could always find someone who was dressed wealthily enough that he didn’t mind picking their pockets.

It was lonely now, since Muriel refused to come into the city for any reason at all.  Asra understood why, of course, he had from the moment that the massive wolf had bounded up to him, wagging her tail in a pacifying greeting, and Faust had started translating frantically that Muriel was okay, that he had found a place in the forest where he was safe, that Asra needed to go to him.  Vesuvia had never really been safe for them, not since . . . but well, Asra could take care of himself now. He just missed having Muriel with him.  

Dema stayed close to him as they walked through the street.  A crowd of revelers, shrieking and laughing in delight, pushed past.  She grabbed his hand and stepped back, hitting the wall behind her. Asra squeezed her knuckles.  “We can go back. If you want.”

“No.”  She shook her head and left her hand in his.  “I’m okay. Hey, um, what’s the local drink here?”

“Well.”  Asra glanced up and down the street to make sure it was relatively clear then pulled her across to a small stall that was selling small flasks of liquor.  He’d never been a drinker. Never enough money for it, and he’d never felt like he had the freedom to dull his senses much, nice as that might have been at times.  Plenty of the other kids around the docks had though. Tended not to end well for them. “This is popular. And bit distinctive. Do you like anise?”

“Try anything once.”  She pulled a handful of coins from her pocket and bought one of the mid sized bottles.  “Somewhere we can people watch without getting trampled?”

“Yeah, come with me.”  He took her hand again, maneuvering her so that she’s walking on the inside of the sidewalk, closer to the wall than the passing crowds.  Another block of so down, there’s a garden surrounded by a thick smooth topped wall. Good for clambering over to purloin fruit - especially since the one time the owner had caught him, they had just laughed and tossed him a rough harvesting bag.  Vesuvia was not so bad, all things considered. At least the people who had lived here for a time. The wall was also an excellent place to sit and watch the goings on in the street below.

He climbed up a series of rough handholds in the stones and reached back down for her.  She ignored his hand and agilely pulled herself up. “Not the first rock wall I’ve climbed.”  She settled on the wall beside him and pulled the cork from the bottle, tilting it back to take a sip.  Her eyes went wide for a moment, then she smiled. “This is different. Pleasant actually. Not all at what I usually drink.”

“What’s your usual poison?”

“Mmm . . .”  She took another drink.  “Whiskey. Rum sometimes.”

Someone set off firecrackers in the street producing a series of crackles and bangs, followed by the boom and screech of a bottle rocket.  She jumped and Asra grabbed her hand, missed and wrapped his fingers around her wrist by mistake. She winced and snatched her hand back from him.  “Sorry, sorry. Does it hurt much?”

“The burns do.  Didn’t really feel it until a day or two ago.  I . . . they, my father that is, had me pretty drugged up coming here.”

“That’s -”

“Anna chewed him out.  I think, I was still coming down off the drugs.”  Her grin faded, and she took another drink, longer this time.  “I don’t know if he deserved it. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.”

Asra looked down at his hands.  If he were doing a reading, he’d dig in here.  It was what people paid him for really, for permission to talk about whatever was on their mind.  The cards were window dressing for the customers, no matter what they meant to him. But he wasn’t sure, she’s ready.  If she even has words yet. “Where’s your family from?”

“Far to the south and then west a bit.  Anna moved away before I was born. Haven’t been home in about five years though.  At school.”

“But your father brought you here?”

“At least he came for me.”  She glanced away, eyes getting lost in shadow.  “Even if he doesn’t want me back. Wouldn’t do -”  She paused and took a drink from the flask in her hand.  “Not to have a daughter who is so clearly not one of the elect.”

“Elect?”

“Religion thing.  I’m better off if I just forget it.  Been damned for awhile. Anna too, that's why she left.  Or rather she didn't believe any of it. And if you don’t believe it, well, can you be damned?”  She pushed her hair back and scrubbed the back of her hand over her eyes. Had she been about to cry?  "Enough about me. Where are your folks from?" She extended the bottle to him.

"My folks?”  He reached out and took the bottle from her.  "Here, I guess, they disappeared when I was too little to be interested in that sort of thing."  A long drink, a burn in his throat, and a too long silence. He remembered why he didn't care for alcohol.

"Have you been on your own since?"

"I, kind of, not really.  My friend, Muriel, he's the one who does most of the carving on the masks, we've been taking care of each other.  But -” He took another drink. It was no better than the first. “I failed him. He got caught holding a purse I had stolen.  Lucky, I suppose, they didn't take a hand. Threw him into the gladiatorial ring instead." If Asra had just been a little stronger, a little quicker, a little more present, Muriel never would have been caught.  Never sent into that hellhole. Or if he was a little smarter, he'd have figured out how to get Muri out. But he was none of those things. He expected her to say something. Something trite about how that must have been difficult, it to reassure him that certainly it wasn't his fault, even if she didn't know that full story.  That's what people did. Decent people at least. Try to make it better.  

Instead, she reached out and wrapped her fingers around his hand.  Like he'd done so many other times, Asra caught himself before he let out a sob.  He hadn't cried in years, certainly not in front of anyone other than Muriel. Cheerful, charming.  It's good for business. If you fake it long enough it might even be the truth. But she says nothing, and in halting words he starts to tell her.  He'd made himself watch each fight, fighting back nausea, trying to preemptively decide what he could do to heal each cut, each bruise, each broken bone.  But it wasn't enough - not when he hadn't been able to get him out. And then, finally, Muriel had just gotten up and walked out. And no one stopped him, because in the months he had been in the ring, no one had been able to stop him, even slow him down.  And who was foolish enough to try to stop him, not with snarling wolf by his side.

Her hand remained on his - a slight, gentle weight.  He closed his eyes, and his breath caught in his throat for a moment as he tried to hold back tears.  But, finally, he let himself cry. She sat quietly next to him, eventually wrapping an arm around his shoulders.  And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t push someone away.

* * *

The bedroll by the banked fire is warm and comfortable, but Asra couldn’t sleep.  Odd, he’d been able to sleep almost anywhere for years now - warm and comfortable or very much the opposite.  He tossed and turned and eventually gave up. Before finding his deck in his bag, he lit an oil lamp on the table with a live coal.  Faust lifted her head sleepily, and he runs a finger along her back, whispering for her to go back to sleep.

He shuffled the cards absently and dealt the top three.  The Four of Cups, the Two of Cups, and The Hermit. The minor cards spoke together in suggestive whispers.  The first card was a gentle accusation of having closed himself off, having retreated for too long. The second was hopeful, echoing the moment he felt earlier, sitting on the garden wall.  The Hermit repeated both the accusation and the choice, continuing to close himself off, or accepting - trusting - someone else. He lifted the final card and looked it over closely before restacking the deck and returning it to his bag.   

Asra retrieved a mask that had snapped from the bottom of his bag.  He glued it back together, and in the dim light of a lamp, painted it in abstract swirling colors, energetic and undefined.  He covered the repaired rift with a layer of clay, then adheres a layer of gilt over that, warming and moistening the clay with his breath, and polishing the gold leaf with a smooth piece of amethyst.  

He was gone in the morning before anyone woke.  But her mask waited on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning. Referenced self-harm/suicide attempt. Some detail of injuries in process of healing.
> 
> Not sure I'd call this a meet cute. But that's the narrative function. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	20. Drill a Tiny Hole Into Your Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings (PLEASE READ): The coda continues a mention of self harm and a suicide reference. If you would prefer to skip it, go to the end note for non detailed summary.
> 
> Chapter title from Andrew Bird, "Fake Palindromes."

Portia returns shortly and shoves a pile of clothing into Asra’s arms as she kicks the door shut behind her.  “Whew! You showed up at just the right time. Asra, is it? I’ve heard about you. Next room, through that door, get changed.”  She gives him a little shove to the door that connects the room, and with another charismatic grin, Asra complies with the force of nature than is Portia.  

With a sigh, she turns back to me and bustles across the room to the wardrobe.  “I thought we were done for. Good thing your friend showed up.” She holds up a dress, considers it for a moment, then puts it away, before choosing another.  I spare a moment to wonder exactly when the wardrobe got stocked with clothing in my size. “Dema, you’re right, by the way, he’s prettier than anyone has any right to be.”

“I told Julian to go to your cottage.”

“I hope he remembers the directions.  And he’s sneaky as anything, but if he runs into guards . . . well.”  Portia bites her lip, looking worried. “I suppose I’ll hear about it if he does.  Your friend, Asra, is he an ally?”

I glance away, then look back to her.  “Close enough. He wouldn’t turn Julian in, but there was something between them and that something went sideways.”  I start undoing the fastening of the outfit I’m currently wearing.  

“Can't imagine my brother being involved in something that went sideways.”  Portia picks out a third dress, pale blue with green embroidery and decorative lacing.  “Well, this will do. Bring out your eyes.” She tosses the dress over my head.

There’s a knock on the door connecting the rooms.  Asra. I yell back permission for him to come in. Portia arches her eyebrows at me and begins tightening the ribbons that lace up the front of the bodice.  I glance over at Asra, he’s wearing loose cream pants and a violet tunic. How Portia found one that matches his eyes perfectly in under fifteen minutes is well beyond my powers of comprehension.

His eyes run up and down my body, and he smiles.  “You look nice in that. Different. But nice.” 

“You too.  Your clothes match for once.”

He laughs.  “Yes, Nadia always puts together my best looks.”

Portia coughs.  “Yeah, about that.”  She finishes with the laces on my dress and pushes my hair out of my face.  “I think I’m just going to brush out your hair and leave it down tonight. Pretty that way.”

“I think Portia picked that out for you.”

“Ah, well.”  He has the grace to blush.  “Nadia has competition then.  Thank you, Portia.”

“You’re welcome.”  She starts working a brush through my hair from the ends up then pins it back from her face.  “I’ve learned a few things from Milady.” She steps back and looks at my face carefully before pulling a lock of my hair loose from the pins.  “Perfect. You know your way to the dining room by now? I need to go check in on my grannie.” She winks at me.”

“Yeah, I understand.  Thanks, Portia.” 

* * *

I expect another dinner where Nadia is the only member of the court in attendance, but when Asra and I enter the table is set for five.  It’s as elaborate as ever with the multiple stemmed glasses and the myriad of utensils that I’m still not sure how to use. Worse than any potential specter of a faux pas with the silverware, Valdemar haunts the table, standing perfectly still behind one of the chairs, with their eyes closed in what might be meditation.  Or could be meditation if I thought I could ascribe anything so benign to them. Why are they here? Do they even eat?  

Asra stops short when he sees them and tightens his hand in mine before recovering himself.  He leans close to my ear, whispering. “Nadia hasn’t gotten rid of them yet?”

“It’s complicated.  You know them?”

“Ah, witch, it seems we meet again.”  

I sigh in relief when I hear Valerius’s voice.  He’s standing near the sideboard helping himself to a glass of wine.  An ally, at least, I think he’s an ally even if his face is schooled into his usual expression of haughty disdain.  “Or, I suppose, witches, since there are two of you now.”

“Consul.”  Asra’s voice is cool.  Valerius must not rank particularly high on his list of preferred people.  Presumably though, he rates a bit higher than Valdemar.   

" _Asra_ , was it?"  The way Valerius pronounces the name is off, long and short vowels confused, like there are some more h's hidden in there, and I wonder just how much of a kick he gets from teasing without making it obvious.  Quite a bit of a thrill, if I had to guess.

Eyes rolling, Asra corrects him, changing the vowels back to what they should be, redoubling my sense that this is some sort of long running game between them that only Valerius enjoys.

"Would you like some wine, witches?"  Judging by Asra’s irritated exhale, this is not how it usually goes.

I wonder what ritualized little jab Asra didn't get to insert into the conversation.  My eyes dart back to the table where the Quaestor is still posed, then nod to Valerius.  Wine would help. "Yes, I would." There's another irritated noise from Asra, as Valerius overfills a glass and puts it in my hand.

Then, he looks at me again, a raised brow that tells me politely that he is slightly amused about the people I choose to spend my time with, and then he pours another glass and offers it to Asra with a minute change to his expression.  No smile, but not a scowl either. Amusement, but not true disdain. "They _are_ easier to bear with this."  He’s probably talking about the Quaestor, or is he?

Asra takes the glass, still scowling, but at least he isn’t placing some sort of hex on Valerius's wine.  He glances over at the Quaestor. "Why are they here?”

"Maybe the Countess invited them.  Who am I to doubt her ways? Or maybe they simply decided to hibernate here and the staff set a place for them?  Would you want to be the one to try to get them to leave?” The slightest shrug. “When I arrived, they already were like that, and did not react to my greeting."  Perhaps we can hope Valdemar might just stay this way - unmoving, silent, and dead to the world. Awkward enough, but probably less of a damper on the conversation than their participation would be.

"Valerius, I need to ask you something?”

"Another question, little witch?”  If he's intending to maintain an air of scorn for me, it isn't going too well.  He says witch with a noticeable touch of a smile, like it's a friendly nickname, not an insult.  I’m willing to accept it as such. Beside me, Asra raises his eyebrows at the hint of familiarity.

"Have you heard anything about Lucio haunting the palace?”  I want to ask him if he's dreamed of Lucio along with the nocturnal visitations from the Hierophant that he won’t openly admit to, but I know that there's no way he'd even acknowledge that question, not in front of Asra, or anyone.

He arches an eyebrow at me, then readjusts his expression to its usual slightly pissed state.  "Of course, I've heard things about hauntings. The servants also claim that a headless woman walks the halls at midnight."  He hesitates for a moment. "Superstition. No more."

Two guards open the doors and Nadia enters.  She seems surprised for a moment when she sees Valdemar frozen by a chair but recovers quickly, and lets her gaze pass over him to Valerius.  "Ah, Consul, I see you found the aperitifs. I had the kitchen build the menu around the wine list, instead of the reverse." A small smile graces her face.  A jest rather than an insult then? Or at least intended to be such.

"You spoil us, Countess."  He bows courteously to the Countess, form perfect.  "It's very commendable you decided to make this a working dinner instead of a simple meeting."

"Yes, yes.  Far more pleasant, even if I far the topic at hand is less than merry."  A servant pulls out her chair for her and gestures for us to join her at the table. Asra shooes me away from the seat across Valdemar, taking it himself and leaving me at Nadia's right hand and across from Valerius.  I catch him making gestures to ward off the evil eye under the table.

Valdemar appears to go from standing to sitting, perfectly poised, without moving at all.  "Ah, the guests have arrived. Countess. It is a pleasure, as it always is. Consul." The thinnest smile, a sickle in a sickly face.  They look like a corpse fished out one of the canals. "You have found the wine, Consul. Of course you have. Have I not told you what it does to your system?"

"You have, Quaestor, in greatest and unappetizing detail, thank you."  Valerius takes a sip just to make a point about the value he ascribes to their opinion.

"It's an excellent choice to speak over dinner, Nadia.  Thank you." I feel the need to establish myself as allied with Valerius; although, I suspect that is a flimsy shield indeed.

"It’s my pleasure."  She gestures to servants to place the first course on the table.  "I am also pleased that you have returned to us after your absence.  I'll confess to fearing that you might have abandoned the investigation.  But instead -" She inclines her head to Asra. "You seem to have brought reinforcements."

"I wonder if that will lead to more success than the disappointments she has managed thus far.” Valdemar steeples their fingers in front of them, ignoring the food on the table.  “Speaking of such: you were the cause of the horrible mess in the late count's quarters?" Still the sharp smile on their harshly angled face.

Nadia arches an eyebrow at me.  I wish I knew exactly what Portia had told her about our adventure yesterday.  Or had Valdemar discovered the broken statue and mirror on their own? That would raise some questions.  Why were they in the Count’s wing?  

"I have been asked to look into the Count's murder.  Observing the scene of the crime might seem to be necessary for that work."

"Just observing?"  A dry chuckle, and they hold a still gloved hand in front of their mouth politely.  Valerius shoots me a questioning glance.

Asra's hand on my knee suggests that he's giving me much the same look as Valerius.  "Yes, I observed a couple of hounds who have been neglected for far too long. They're a bit unruly."  It was a true statement. Something makes me think that the Quaestor is the kind of fey creature that can smell a lie.  But maybe not a half truth.

"I am sure you gave them a good, ehem, petting.  Perhaps a game of tug of war?"

"Quaestor, this is not very constructive, and certainly not what Her Excellency intended." Valerius manages to sound bored by their implications about what I might have been up to Lucio’s chambers.  “Please focus on your findings.”

Nadia clears her throat.  "I've decided that Lucio's wing has been in a state of disrepair for quite long enough, but it seemed prudent to have the Quaestor go through it one last time for any physical evidence.  Which they did this morning."

I suppress the part of me that wants to ask Nadia just why she considered Valdemar to be trustworthy by stabbing at the stuffed pasta dish in front of me.  While the wing certainly was a mess, how did they know that the damage was recent, much less had anything to do with me? Unless . . . Had Lucio’s ghost told them?

We - or rather four of us - eat in silence while Valdemar explains their findings: shattered mirrors and the remnants of some design drawn in blood, ashes strewn across the floor, a mess on the bed, and three sets of footprints.  As they do, they continue to shoot me oh so very innocent looks. I want to keep my eyes on my plate, but I suspect that’s a bad idea. Nadia might catch on that I’m hiding something.

Asra is getting more agitated by the minute, and I know I'm going to hear about this later.  Especially after Valdemar mentioned blood. Valerius keeps glancing at me from across the table, and I wonder for a moment if he's confused card reader with psychic and expects me to somehow communicate with him wordlessly.  The servants pick up the plates, including the one that Valdemar hasn't touched, and Nadia leans forward with the deadly simple question I had hoped she wouldn't ask. "I know Portia and Dema went Lucio’s chambers. Who was the third?"

The Consul leans back in his chair and folds his hands in front of him.  There's the slightest of nods in my direction - he knows who the third set of prints being to - before he says one word.

"Me."

"You?" I never would have expected to hear Nadia, Asra and Valdemar speak in unison.

"The witch asked me to come along and witness to her shenanigans.  I told her pointedly I'd rather not, but she convincingly mentioned my assistance would be the will of Her Excellency as soon as she was informed, and it would be less trouble for both of us if I just came along."

I shrug and do my best to smile innocently.  "It really would have wasted time if Portia or I had needed to come find you, my lady."  I'm not sure how I'm ever going to afford an adequate bottle of wine to repay the Consul, but that's a problem for later.

"Forgive me for not mentioning it, Your Excellency.  I found it shameful enough as it was and would gladly never have entered those rooms again, even if I have to admit it was quite the experience.  I do hope, my esteemed Quaestor, that you will not try to accuse _me_ of taking active part in any occult silliness, will you?"

"Oh, dearest Consul, I would never.  Your blood is far too thin to be of any use in things like that."  Horribly pointy teeth gleam in the candlelight.

"It's hardly silly if blood is involved," Asra mutters.

I kick him under the table and hope that no one notices.  Now’s not the time. That conversation is coming. It’s just one I want to have in private.

"But to the point, Quaestor, did you find anything that might lead us to an understanding of the events surrounding my husband's murder?”

"I might have, Your Excellency, if your _guest_ would not have done her utmost to disturb the crime scene.  I honestly wonder why the Consul did not stop her from destroying evidence."

"Oh, my esteemed colleague, the answer is a rather simple one.  It has been three years, and, in all that time, none of your efforts have come to fruition.  I highly doubted trying a less . . . _well-trodden_ path could lead to even fewer results."

Valerius gulps down a significant portion of his wine, forgetting in his irritation to be pretentious.  The Quaestor simply smiles at me, teeth clicking together. "Perhaps I could interview the witch about the state of the wing prior to her . . . escapades.  Yes, that might be most informative. Investigate the investigator."

Asra twirls a table knife between his fingers, and I wonder just how sharp an edge he's magicked it into.  "That doesn't seem necessary."

"Oh, I do think it highly necessary.  Who really knows what her intentions are?"  They smile at me, all sharp teeth and malice, while Valerius raises his chin in disgust and takes another pointed sip of his wine as if to reiterate just how little he cares for Valdemar’s opinion.

"Do you _doubt_ , Valdemar, that Her Excellency chose the most apt person for the job?"  His anger is still well subdued, but he lets it shine through enough that we all notice it. Valdemar seems delighted to get a rise out of him.

They titter and lean over the table toward me, chin resting on their folded hands.  "Oh, I trust that the Countess has chosen a most remarkable person for the job." I feel their gaze creeping over my skin, and shiver, grabbing under the table for Asra's hand and whatever reassurance is there.  "You're a fascinating little manikin, witch. Almost perfect. What I'd give to examine you more closely."

"Are you trying to find out if she's got plans for the night, _Quaestor_ , or are you here to listen to her findings up in the rooms?"  The Consul’s voice is stern. He’s entirely fed up with them and has been for no small amount of time.

Beside me Asra has gone from spinning the knife to holding it like a bar room scrapper, and I think I can see frost forming along the edge.  If I don't do something to stop this, I'm afraid he will. And something tells me that attacking Valdemar will not end well for any of us. "Countess, I would be happy to speak with you regarding the state of the Count's rooms, but I won't be subjected to this."

“Your behavior is entirely unbecoming to a member of the court, Quaestor.  I do not appreciate my guests being treated like this.”

"I concur."  Valerius fingers his wine and stands.  "Your Excellency, if you agree, I will see the Quaestor to their lab.  I'm sure you will inform them about any information you deem necessary for them to know."

"You will not finish eating with us?"

"My compliments to the kitchen, but I don't quite have the right appetite for such a scrumptious meal at this time of day.  Should anything remain, please have the staff bring it to my rooms." Valerius waits two heartbeats more to give her time to refuse his offer, then rises to make his exit.

"Yes, Consul, please see the Quaestor back to their lab."  Nadia narrows her eyes at the second courtier and lowers her tone to one that sounds dangerous.  "Valdemar, you are dismissed."

They rise from their chair with a single fluid movement and smile at me again before pointedly walking past Valerius and out of the dining room.  Valerius nods at me and then follows them out. Asra sets down his knife, visibly relaxed now than Valerius and Valdemar have disappeared, and the Countess covers her face with hand.

"Truly, Dema, I apologise for their behavior."

"It was their behavior, not yours."

"Still, they work in my name.  It is not acceptable, not anymore.  If my late husband found that appropriate - well, good on him, but I don't."

I wish those are not just empty words.

"So, what did the three of you find?  Or shall I call for Portia too, to get more honest answers?"  She smiles as she looks up again, her eyes softer than they were a moment before.

"It's, um, true that we did rather make a mess of things.  Or rather . . ." I'm not entirely sure what to tell her, and I haven't had a chance to discuss it with Asra - or Portia, and . . . I grab my glass and take a deep drink of the wine.  "Have you heard the servants speak of that wing being haunted?"

She nods.  "Oh, of course they do.  I've taken it as a given they would, given the nature of the Count’s death."

"It's not superstition in this case."  I catch myself rubbing my shoulder, the one Lucio's cold hand rested on.  "The Count's ghost is very much haunting that wing."

"So he can't even die right."  Her crimson eyes roll. "As useless at being dead as he was at being alive."

"Perhaps not.  We, um, Portia and I thought he might remember the circumstances of his death."  I'm almost stammering as badly as Julian. Without knowing what Portia had already told her, and I don't doubt it's something, it's hard to know what to say.  "So that was the purpose of going into the Count's wing."

"But he was too drunk or high or sick to remember?"  There's a tone in her voice that makes me almost feel sorry for the dead man.  Not much love lost there. It must have been a miserable marriage.

"I'm not sure.  I didn't get a final answer.  He got a bit . . . distracted."  

"Sounds about right for him," Asra comments.  "How strong is he? Can he manifest in his own?”

"I used a spell, but he was strong enough to shatter a mirror after, and a statue."

Asra's eyebrows knit together in concern at the mention of a summoning spell, and I suspect he's putting that information together with Valdemar's mention of blood.  He doesn’t seem so much unhappy with or disappointed in me, as he is worried. I slid my hand into his above the table this time, with only Nadia here, I feel no need to hide the gesture.

She notices and smiles.  "And may I ask why you decided to take along _Valerius_?  Of all people?  He never struck me as particularly receptive to spirits that aren't liquid."  She allows herself a short chuckle, and Asra joins in. I repress a stab of irritation at the both of them, other than Portia, Valerius has been the most willing to help me.  But at least, the Countess found it credible, if laughable, that I took him along, which is more than expected.

"Precisely for that reason.  Who better for a witness than a known skeptic?”  It seemed a reasonable enough explanation.  

"Would it be possible to rouse Lucio again?”

Asra breaks in.  "I suspect the spell Dema used isn't one that should be repeated."

"Do you have a better one, dear Asra?"

"I have an idea."  His hand tightens around mine as if to reassure me that he isn't angry.  "Strong emotions can cause a spirit to manifest. And Lucio was also temperamental.  So, perhaps, we can provoke him."

"And then?  What do you intend to do then?"

"I still think he may know more than he told me."  I'm not sure I particularly relish the notion of provoking Lucio's spirit, much less rousing him.  But Asra was correct that using blood again would be a bad idea, especially mine. The chance of Lucio developing a connection to a specific person was high.

"Do you really think this is a good idea?  Lucio was . . . not especially kind when he was angry.  Everything but that, really." Nadia doesn't look too happy with the prospect.

Asra shrugs.  "It might also provide an opportunity to banish him, if he's still lingering once you've finished cleaning and renovating."

"I . . .  I need to think about it."  For the first time, the usually proud woman seems to be hesitant.  Is Lucio that much of a threat when he's really angry? He did threaten to rip Portia's head off, and Julian's reaction suggested that it wasn't an idle threat.  Besides, simply mentioning Asra's name had caused him to shatter a mirror, and there was still the question of Asra and his dead lover. Even if Julian wasn't implicated in the events of three years ago, we might not like what we find out from him.

"It is entirely your decision, Nadia, and we will not try to convince you of anything you are not sure about."  Asra's voice is calm, and I briefly think of him explaining difficult facts to children, which doesn’t seem quite right as regards the Countess.  "There's a certain risk, but I think I’m able to handle whatever he can throw at us."

The Countess sighs.  "Let's see what happens when I send in servants to clear the area.  For now, go rest. You must have a lot to catch each other up on."

* * *

When we get back to the room, there’s a bottle of liquor enticing me from the corner table.  Extra tantalizing after dealing with Valdemar. I pour a drink for myself and offer the bottle to Asra who shakes his head.  I shrug and splash another finger of liquid into the glass before tossing it back. It burns my throat. It’s something that I understand.     

Asra wraps his arms around me from behind.  I sink back against him, letting him tuck my head under his chin.  Enigmatic as he is, he’s still the only constant in my fractured mind.  Faust coils herself around both of us, radiating contentment. “This isn't exactly what I had in mind when I said try to stay out of trouble.”

“Which part of this?”  The past few days and nights have been a whirlwind of trouble, and I know it.

“Any of it.  Getting involved with Nadia - with Ilya.  Did both of you just impulsively decide that you’re back together again?”

His concerns are the exact opposite of mine.  He seems to trust Nadia - far more than I do. And Julian, or Ilya, is some sort of threat, either to me, or what Asra wants from me, or to both.  At least, insofar as Asra understands the situation.

“Asra, I trust him.  I know it doesn't make sense, but I feel like I've known him longer than a few days.  Longer than I have memories for.”   

“That's just the kind of drama he loves: tempestuous parting and a picturesque reunion.”

I huff in irritation and shrug out of his arms.  Faust comes with me, curling around my neck and bumping her head against my chin.  “And what about the two of you? He thinks you cursed you?”

“Cursed him?  Do you really think I would put a curse on someone?”

“No.”  Well, maybe.  I’m not entirely sure what Asra actually _is_ capable of doing.  “What did happen between the two of you?”

“We were together for a bit.  While you -”

“While me what?”

A long pause and yet another deflection.  “I couldn't actually give him what he wanted.”

“So it was just sex for you?”

“Not qui- _dammit_ \- yes.  I'm sure he does care for you, but he couldn't - he can't take care of you.”

“What do you mean by couldn't?”

“He let you -”  Asra bites of his words and turns away from me, pressing his fingers to the window.  “He didn't keep you safe.” I want to ask what he didn't keep me safe from, but I know I won't get an answer.  Probably only more questions.  

“Maybe I don't need someone to take care of me.”  It's neither a lie nor quite the truth. I can keep myself fed, clothed, and so on and so forth, but I also can pace the streets for days at a time, an inner monologue breaking through as nearly incoherent mumbles, until Asra finds me, pulls me home and holds me until I sleep.   “I'm not a child, Asra!”

“That's not . . . That's not what I meant.”

“Asra?”  

“What?”  

“Why do you take care of me?”  The first few months I remember are broken and foggy, but I know I wasn’t well.  Not quite helpless, but there would have been no way that I could have fended for myself.  And the times I've been . . . ill since then.

“Because I’m the one who got you into this, this . . .”  His voice trails off when he can’t find the word he wants.  “And I can’t figure out how to get you out of it.”

A long pause.  I want another drink.  I want to know just what ‘this’ is that he can’t get me out of.  I want him to answer a goddamn question. I touch a hand to his shoulder instead of pouring another shot.  Better tactic. Perhaps.

“Asra, you said we were lovers.  What did lovers mean?”

“It meant -”  He turns around, he hands are shaking.  “It meant that we always came home to each other.  Dema -”

Do you still love me?  I feel the words on my lips.  I cut him off, cut myself off before I can ask that question.  “I need to sleep.” Faust slides down my arm. I hold out my hand.  Asra’s fingers touch mine as she crawls across to him.

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

I bite my lip, torn between wanting his familiar presence and overwhelming irritation with him.  But I’ve slept well enough alone, curled around a pillow instead of him during the many, many times he’s left me alone.  “No. Not right now.”

Later, when my thoughts won’t stop chasing their own tails in my skull, I push open the door between our rooms and pad softly across the carpeted floor to where Asra is sprawled across the bed.  When I slide in next to him, he rolls onto his side and wraps an arm around me, mumbling groggily. “Can’t sleep?”

I shake my head.  “Too many thoughts.”

“What are you thinking?”

“All of this, this . . . it has something to do with me.  My past. Doesn’t it?”

Silence.  Not sure what else I expected.  Asra pulls me closer to him. His lips press against the top of my head.  “In a way. At least . . .” He’s quiet again, gathering his own thoughts or perhaps trying to figure out how to phrase them, then he repeats himself.  “In a way.”

“Yesterday.  In Lucio’s rooms, I had a headache, one that knocked me flat.”   He doesn’t say anything in response, but he shifts his hand and runs his fingers over my hair.  “But, I got through it, so -” I sit up and pause, looking down at Asra. “Why are you the only one who isn’t missing anything?”  
“Missing?” Asra is trying and failing to keep the pain in his eyes from reaching his voice.  His hand hovers over his chest and clutched at the fabric of his shirt before he manages to will it back to his side.  He looks away from me, off into the darkness of the room. “We're all missing something, Dema.”

What happened that they've paid so dearly for it?  I would ask Asra, but there are already pricks behind my eyes, warning of the headache to come if I do.

“Asra, am I the same person I was?”

His wide, startled eyes dart back to my face.  “Are you the same person? Yes . . .” His chin tilts down.  “. . . and no.” He folds his hands over mine. “You have the same humor and compassion.  You sing the same nonsense songs to yourself. You even use the same obscure vocabulary that I know I didn't teach you.  But there's an edge to you that wasn't there before, a sort of anger and cynicism. Not that I blame you.”

“Why didn't you tell me we were lovers?”

“I . . .”  He drops my hands.  “I didn't want to force some kind of expectation on you.  You were so vulnerable at first, and I hoped the memories would come back, like your smile and your songs did eventually.”

Everything about him - his posture, the expression on his face - is a study in misery.  I lean down and rest my head against his shoulder. We lay in silence for a moment.

“While I’m being honest, I don't know why you're helping Ilya.  He’s not a perfect man. Then again, I suppose no one really is.  Are you...that determined to uncover the truth?”

“I am.”

He sighs heavily and runs his hands over my back.  “We’ll find him tomorrow then, and we need to go meet a friend of mine.”

 

**(STOP! DID YOU READ THE TRIGGER WARNING.  THE NEXT SECTION CONTAINS MENTIONS OF SELF HARM AND SUICIDE.  THERE IS A NON DETAILED DESCRIPTION IN THE ENDNOTES IF YOU WISH TO SKIP IT.)**

 

**Coda: A Punk Who Rarely Ever Took Advice**

_Five years ago.  Dema._

There wasn’t much left in the market anymore.  The city’s stockpile of grain hadn’t run out yet, so the baker was still producing bread, but simple utilitarian loaves.  No decadent pastries or pumpkin bread rich and warm with spice though. I had been able to trade a basket of eggs from my chickens for a few days worth of tea, which was rapidly becoming scarce now that the harbor had closed.  Beyond the bread, Asra and I had been largely eating from my neglected vegetable garden, but he was good at making something out of nothing.

I climbed the stairs to the kitchen above the shop and found Asra hovering over the kitchen table, arranging items on a multi-colored shawl.  Packets of herbs, various charms, an assortment of coins - his tarot deck.

“You’re leaving me again?”

“What?  No.” He looked up from the bundle.  “You’re coming with me.”

“Asra, I can’t leave.”  A steady stream of people continued to come to the shop, even - even after Anna died.  I could give them blends to ease fevers and coughs. Charms that would soothe aching bodies.  All just symptom management, but it was something. Something that I could do. I placed the loaf of bread on the counter and tucked my small packet of tea safely into the cabinet.  “Besides, the entire city is closed off.”

“I know ways out of the city that the guards don’t.”  Asra took the bread from the counter and added it to his bundle.  I snatched it out and returned it to the counter. Faust lifted her head from her basket in the south window, tongue flicking, attention shifting between the two of us.  “I did a reading. It's only going to get worse. If we leave now -”

“Asra, the cards are only a 'might' you know that.”

“Can't take that risk.  Not with you.”

“There are people still asking me to help them.  I can’t just abandon them.”

“I don’t care about them, Dema.  I care about you. We need to go somewhere safe.”  He took my hands in his, lifting them and pressing his lips to my fingers.  “Anywhere but here.”

“I’m not leaving, Asra.  I finally feel like I’m doing something useful.  Not just taking up space.”

“Don’t you understand?  If we stay here, we _will_ die.  You said yourself that there's no cure.”

“I’d rather die doing the right thing.  Anna -”

“Is dead!  She’s dead, and I can’t lose you too.  I just can’t.” He held my hand as tightly as his gaze holds my eyes.  “Please, just let me make this decision. Dema, you aren’t thinking straight.”

“What do you mean?”

He turns my left arm over, running his thumb down the scarred skin to where I have a bandage tied loosely over three new, evenly, precisely spaced burns from when I had found a handwritten note listing her modifications to a recipe, and I needed - I swear - to interrupt the emotions that started to swirl like smoke creeping beneath a door, to wrap around my limbs pulling, tugging me back to listlessness.  

I jerk my arm out of his grasp.  “Fuck you. That’s not fair.”

“Dema.”  He reaches for me again, and I step back, just out of his reach.  “I have to keep you safe. I’ve lost too many people. Just this once, let me decide.”

“Mad or not, I still get to make my own decisions.  You don’t get to take that from me.”

He stood quietly, trembling.  When he spoke, his voice was soft.  “I didn’t say you were mad.”

“What did you say then?”

“Dema.  I love you.  I can’t watch you die.”

“Then don’t.”  I wrapped my arms close around my chest, shoulders hunching forward.  “Leave. I won’t stop you. You’re always gone anyway.”

“You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?  That you’re running away? That you think I’ve lost my mind?  That I can’t make decisions for myself?”

“If I you tried to hang yourself, should I just let you?”

“How fucking dare you, Asra.  This isn’t the same at all.”

“How? You’re dead at the end of either scenario!”

A deep breath.  Count to ten. Don’t overreact.  “Get out, Asra.” It wasn’t an overreaction.  Not at all.

Asra stared at me, silent, every muscle in his body taut.  “Fine,” he said finally. He gathered up his half packed bundle, took his flamboyantly feathered hat and iridescent scarf down from the wall, and lifted Faust from her basket and curled her around his shoulders.  As he stomped down the stairs, she looked back over his shoulder at me, eyes blinking in confusion.  

I told myself he’d be back.  Probably before the sun set.

 

He wasn’t back that night.  Or the next day. I stayed busy during the day in the the still room, preparing tinctures, pre-mixing teas, and carefully melting down some of the precious little sugar I had left into syrups that I was strongly encouraging people to only buy for children.  Easier for adults to tolerate a bitter tea.

When he wasn't back at sunset, I toasted a slice of bread, fried an egg to go on it, and settled in with a book of philosophy, because I needed something that would take up most of my mental energy, and a novel wasn't going to suffice.

He didn't come back at midnight.

The scrap of paper with the address of Julian's clinic was tucked into the back my book.

The second morning, I knocked on the clinic door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Coda: During the plague, following her aunt's death, Dema comes back to the shop to find Asra packing to leave. Dema insists on staying, because she feels like she's doing something helpful for the city. He tries to make her come with, referencing that her mental illness is acting up and that she isn't in a good state of mind to make decisions. They argue and Dema throws Asra out. When he doesn't come back, she goes to work for Julian.
> 
> Coda title from The Verve Pipe, "Freshmen"


	21. I Don't Know What It Is, but There's Definitely Something Going on Upstairs - NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter co-authored by [Verdin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdin/pseuds/Verdin).
> 
> Chapter title from Nick Cave, "Dig, Lazarus, Dig!"
> 
> And the following is all Lucio/Valerius with a mention of past Julian/Lucio, so if either of those are not you're jam, feel free to skip this chapter. 
> 
> edited to change some word choice

Val pauses at the base of the stairs leading to Lucio's wing and rubs his temples.  Dealing with Valdemar is never pleasant, but at least they had proceeded directly back to the hole they occasionally crawled out from.  Unlikely that they would remain there, but one could hope. Ghosts though. Superstition. The witch must have seen some trick of the light and gotten spooked, and if Devorak was with them, well he was a man of science, but he was also high strung and prone to histrionics.  

But what if she is right?  Besides, perhaps he should survey the wing himself before Nadia renovates it.  He doesn’t really trust anyone’s opinion except his own - and that little enough.  Val backtracks a few steps down the hall, and seizes a candle from a sconce in the wall, before starting up the stairs.  The oh-so-familiar stairs that he'd slunk up more than once in the dead of night, candle clutched in his hand, half hating himself with each step.

 

 _After all is said and done, I'm bored again.  Horribly so. Up here, with the remains of her blood and then Valdemar's visit, it felt like things were finally happening, but now I'm all alone again and . . . they said I'll soon be good to leave these rooms for longer periods of time without losing myself so easily, they promised, but it's not quite time yet_.

_Steps?  Yes. Steps indeed.  Heels clicking on marble, so not the horrible little Devorak girl or the witch.  I wouldn’t mind the witch, so much. Or Jules. Nor are these steps one of the courtiers, I can feel those by now.  Another part of this deal that I very much regret. They are a constant faint mumbling in the back of my head, but at least, even Vulgora is only that, small mercies, talking of hunger and rage and worms and, sometimes about the things I know now Valdemar cares for, things that remind me of the horrors of the battlefield, of finding a half-dead comrade and . . . I gave them merciful deaths at least I was that human.  Valdemar would gleefully cut them apart and see how long he can make them last, taint their flesh so much even the crows wouldn't feast on it._

_Noddy maybe, in a pair of those nice black riding boots?  No. Those steps aren’t nearly temperamental enough for her.  Jules would have loved to be under those heels, but always was too afraid to ask.  Gladly would have given him my place_.

 

The hounds greet Valerius at the top, tails wagging.  Unsurprising, he was one the few people that Lucio consistently allowed through.  And it _was_ true that the dogs had been neglected for the past three years.  A wonder that they weren't even more destructive. He pauses to scratch the pitiful hounds behind their ears, then holds up a candle to the hallway.  The state of disrepair is shocking, far worse than the last time he set foot in the wing. The portraits along the walls have been shredded, starting from the eyes and working outward.

 

_That smell . . . Smoke and old oak and . . . no, it cannot be. He's dead. He must be dead, embalmed in wine, drowned in old sadness and despair, and I come to greet him like a dog, to see if he is really there, surprised by how much it makes me yearn for . . .  I forgot what it was. I wonder what he'll say when he sees me._

_Sees me . . ._

_You have been here once before, haven't you, Val?  Drunk off your pale ass and bawling your eyes out, and then you gave your honest opinion, said all the things you always wanted to say to me to my portrait, and then you cried some more, and I wasn't strong enough to do anything but watch.  You look like shit when you cry, Val, and I may have cried a little too, or would have if I could, just because you looked so horrible with a face full of snot._

 

Air brushes past him, a draft with no explanation.  Could the witch actually be right? No, that’s nonsense.  The dead don't return to haunt the places they lived and died.  No more than the figures on cards could speak to people in dreams.  Neither phenomenon is anything more than the product of too much emotion and too much alcohol.  A mind that he continued to quiet with alcohol, so that he could ignore it going to pieces. Ignore everything around him going to pieces.

 

_"You look like death," I tell him, because he does, and drag on his silly braid like a naughty schoolboy.  He has such nice hair, and I never understood why he wears it like this instead in the luxurious waves it wants to be.  He looks so gaunt, filled with some underlying sickness, some stupid, undramatic one, that nobody sees coming before it's way too late._

 

Something tugs on his braid, and he spins on his heels.  Certainly, it's one of the other courtiers - Vulgora probably - playing pranks.  But there’s no peal of uncouth laughter, only a hint of white in the corner of his vision.  Nothing and no one he can see clearly. It can't be. Ghosts don’t exist. But the dogs are circling around, wagging their tails and smiling like they never did for anyone other than Lucio.  (Well, Lucio or Devorak, the dogs always liked the doctor.) Val holds up his candle and turns once more. No. There's no one here. No one will answer. Yet. "Lucio?" His voice wavers, and he wishes he had brought a bottle with him.  Wine would welcome.

 

_Look at me, I say._

_Look at me. Louder._

_Look at me! I shout, but those sad pale eyes just stare right through me, and I know he is afraid, and I try to thread my fingers through his, cold and clammy, just to drag him closer to the bedroom, where I am still at my strongest._

 

Something cool tugs on his wrists.  It's weak, but it's definitely _there_ , pulling him toward the bedroom.  He stumbles forward, caught off balance in his heels, and through the door.  A bust Lucio had commissioned to commemorate some victory or another was shattered across the floor, and true to Valdemar's description the bed was wrecked well beyond being burned.  Valerius had never understood just how the fire damage could have limited itself to the bed - in fact, just the section, Lucio had been laying in - but now ash was scattered about the room and the remains of the bedspread lay tangled in the floor.  Heedless of the ash, both dogs go to the tangled fabric and curl up in it, their silky white bodies pressed tightly together.

 

_Back then, did I ever have the chance to do you in this bed, Val?  Properly. Like you would have deserved. Did I ever do you anyway?  That, too, I can't properly remember. Why are the important things gone, and just the bitter ones stay?  It is not fair. Once again, it is not, I don't deserve this, because I'm better than that, and you know it, Val, right?  You know it._

_"Why did you come here?" I say, and this time, you may have heard it._

 

"I -"  He heard the voice, asking why he came, but he doesn't want to admit it.  And he doesn't know. Or rather he can't put into words, not coherent words why he's here.  Because Lucio was beautiful, and maddening, and more intoxicating than wine. Because he's alone now.  He's been alone, with the wretched court, and now Nadia, who can't quite seem to decide if she despises him or needs him, and the only certain thing is that no one wants him.

 

 _I desperately want to touch him, and then I do, because I am Lucio, and who should stop me, and my hand, my claw, looks giant on his chest, and so utterly inhuman, and for the first time in quite a while, something feels wrong, I think that's the word, and I stare down on the frail human in front of me, and he stares up, or stares through me at the picture on the wall, the last one I couldn't bring myself to destroy_.

 

Val’s chest is suddenly, painfully cold.  He reaches a hand to place over it, but there's something there, between his palm and the fabric of his robe.  No explanation. No matter. The massive portrait of Lucio on the wall is still intact, somehow, some why, when all the others have been destroyed, and Valerius wants it.  No one else will, certainly not the Countess. She'll remove it, place it in storage. Maybe burn it if she's feeling petty.

 

_I focus on his hand on mine, no, in mine, and curse that the witch is not around.  Everything was easier in her presence. It's almost there, visible, short white fur that's probably coarse, I mean, it looks coarse, hard to tell if you can't touch it, and I think I can feel warmth under it, where it rests on the silky white fabric of Valerius' shirt._

 

Valerius turns his head slowly, to where there should be someone standing before him.  He thinks he can see something. Some large shape, pinpricks of red where the eyes should be.  A trick of the light. The light and the alcohol that is always in his blood now. Or maybe, just maybe.  "Lucio?" The name is a whisper leaving his lips.

They’re too far up to be eyes.  Human eyes, at least. _"It's my damn room, Val,"_ somebody says, and he sounds a lot like the dead man.

This . . . this shouldn't be, but . . .  He closes his fingers over his chest and feels, fingers there.  Long, elongated, not quite human. He loosens his own grip and trails his hand up, along an arm that isn't quite present, to a shoulder, broad and muscular from years of sword practice and then down to a chest that's nearly at the height of his head.

 

_I shiver under the gentle touch.  It has been so long . . . A sudden surge of desire floods me, and I wish to pull him close and just hold him, and maybe he'd whimper softly like a little kitten, because he craves me and wants me as close as it can possibly be, and . . . is he even into that? It feels like I should know, and I wonder if I ever cared before.  I think I did._

_I could do it.  Right now, I'm_ here _enough to do it, but . . . I don't want to scare him.  Not even more. He looks like he's seen a ghost already_.

 

Valerius manages to choke his sob before it can leave his throat.  But certainly whoever was standing before heard anyway. Not Lucio, he tries repeating that mantra.  Just the alcohol messing with his head. Not Lucio, even if the muscles in the shoulder and the chest feel so familiar.  Too tall. A spasm of laughter overtakes him. Lucio did always want to be taller. Took dieing to achieve that. The laughter turns to tears.

 

 _"Val . . ."  Oh fuck it, I'm no good with that kind of emotion.  No, no, don't be like this, please. I wrap my arm around him, just to reassure him, but maybe I'm just driving him mad, Gods, help me with hysterical women, c'mon, Consul, calm down, say something vaguely derogatory.  Don't cry again. Please don't_.

 

The sensation of a heavy arm falls around his back, and he can just hear his name.  Chest heaving from trying to hold back sobs, Valerius stumbles into the ghost that he’s only just admitted is there, stopped short of falling by something in the space that should be taken up by a body.  He's dimly aware of dropping the candle, but this part of the floor is stone tile, and he can't be bothered to worry about it. Not right now.

 

_"Don't come complaining about your puffy face later, idiot,"  I say and bury my face in his hair - well, as good as that goes, it's more like one of the dogs putting their muzzle against you affectionately.  Didn't they say that only after death you know what people truly thought of you? It's so strange that you of all people are like this. Pretty sure you hated me more than once.  Probably for good reason._

 

Val has never understood why the Count's death affected him so much.  Yes, there was the raw horror of the manner of it, but he had been dying by inches for nearly a year by that point.  "You died. You died and left me to clean up the mess you made. You left me." His eyebrows knit together at the thought of how many times he had dismissed the servants with a sneer and an excuse about needing to speak of business, only to curl up at Lucio's side, not able to quite comprehend how someone as powerful, as magnificent as Lucio could be knocked so low.  And no one else gave a damn. No one besides Devorak, and the man has been so lost in his own grief and guilt that he was nearly useless. Oh, Val had heard about Julian's little hedgewitch in the city, with her herbs and her books and her pretty eyes. He'd listened from across the room when the doctor stumbled in drunk and distraught. Watched as Lucio, in a rare moment of unselfish compassion, soothed the man with soft commands and softer touches, until he was passed out with his head in Lucio's lap, the Count toying with his red hair.  He'd despised himself for the envy he felt.

 

_"You make it sound like I wanted to," I grumble.  The mess had been there before. It's not like it was my fault alone, or his, just a city on the edge slowly breaking down.  Of course, they'd blame it on me and not on decades of other aristocrats filling their own pockets. When I came to Vesuvia, it was already a lost battle, and as a mercenary you try to grab as much as you can and run.  I should have left earlier, before my earlier mistakes caught up with me. That was where I went wrong._

 

This time, Val is sure that he hears him, and sure that it's Lucio.  The same old deflections. "I've missed you, you fool." Because he has.  No amount of reviewing the city's ledgers, watching the deficit drop each month, instead of growing provided consolation.  No number of whores in his bed (always blond now, so trite, so pathetic). Nothing had satisfied.

 

_"Of course you did, you good-for-nothing piece of senatorial scum."  I smile, and it feels so wrong, because this mouth is not made for it, but for biting and tearing apart.  It took death and the devil to make me sentimental, but here I am. Want to touch his skin, very much so, but his silly layered robes won't allow easy access._

 

Val can't decide whether to look up or keep his eyes down.  The ghost doesn't look like Lucio that much is clear, and it's easier to pretend if he doesn’t look directly at him.  Fingers slide into his hair, and Val shivers. "Don't mess up my hair, Lucio." It's an old ritual, one that always ends up with his hair in a disastrous state, but he needs to lodge a pro forma protest.

 

" _Don't mess up my hair, Lucio," I mirror his tone and chuckle, "don't cut my clothes from my body just because you're needy, those are new, don't touch me like this in public, we might be seen..."  Yes, yes, now I remember, at least a little. I like to imagine him blushing him down there in my embrace, and with the words come the memories of his face when I made him forget himself for a few precious moments. "It still feels like silk."_

 

"I put a lot of effort into keeping it that way, thank you very much."  These are all old steps in a dance that Val knows very well. "And please don't cut off my clothes, I don't care to wear anything that's been moldering in here for years, even just through the hallway."  He'd allowed Lucio that once, entranced by the extravagant wastefulness of it and by the cool dangerous touch of the knife against his skin.

 

_"Still so shy.  You're in luck; it's a little hard to carry a knife like this."  I could probably eat them off his body. The thought kills my mood.  Having the courtiers see me like this is one thing, but the thought of him setting his pale eyes on me is oddly off putting.  A monster or, worse, a barnyard animal._

_"Why did you come here, Val?"  I whisper into his hair. "To say goodbye?"_

 

Goodbye?  That would be . . .?  Freedom in a way. He always hated this as much as he loved it, hated how it made him vulnerable, and craved that same state.  But . . . no. That isn't what he wants. "I don't know. I didn't believe what the witch said, not really."

 

_"I hear that Noddy wants to purge these rooms.  Finally get rid of me. Make them new and shiny with money she doesn't have."  And now I say something Val probably always craved more than anything else I could offer him.  "You may have been right about her all along."_

_He was the first and only one who dared to raise his voice in doubt when I was head over heels in love.  Mentioning much it would suit Prakra to marry one of their scions into city state that already struggled to maintain its independence.  How she, as the youngest daughter of so many, didn't have big chances to be married off to someone of any real importance, and how she seemed so very interested in the power that she herself would wield.  Meaningful. Important. I would not have that around me back then._

 

"I . . ."  He isn't sure what he thinks of Nadia anymore.  He does appreciate her intelligence. She might prove a competent ruler in time.  Or perhaps she would flounder and fizzle out as all the others had before her. Certainly, she had never loved her husband and stood to gain the most from his death - a city state of her own to rule over - the power she had always wanted.  Were it not for the matter of her laying comatose for the past three years, Val might think . . . But that doesn't matter so much in the present moment. "I wanted something of yours."

 

_"If you want a part of me, I suggest a broom.  The little witch and the Devoraks made quite a mess.  May have scared them a bit, admittedly, but that reaction was a little over the top."  I'm still not willing to let him go. For a moment I muse if I like the idea of making love in my own ashes.  Am more shocked about me thinking about 'making love' than anything else._

 

"Not quite what I had in mind."  Valerius takes a step back and his eyes flick over to the portrait on the wall.  There was no one else who would care, but perhaps Lucio had some reason that he had let that one remain untouched.  Vanity, more likely than not.

 

_"That? My old face?"  That's sweet or strange. I think sweet._

 

"It's not like you've left me many options."

 

_It may be the only one I left intact here. It is not the only I left intact, and it would be such a shame of letting them go to waste.  "You probably don't intend to hang it anywhere it can be seen, right?"_

 

Valerius huffs.  "Of course not. That wouldn't do at all."  He's spent years pruning sentimentality out of his public persona.  He isn't about to begin to allow it through now. He’ll wrap the portrait and have it sent to his house.  Hang it in his private room, the one he stoops to tidying and dusting himself because he doesn’t care for even his most trusted servants to see it.  

 

 _"Because . . . if it's for strictly private use, I might have something better.  If you're interested." I'm giggling. Almost forgot about them, and that's probably why they are more than shreds of paper scattered across the floor_.

 

In the past, Valerius would have rolled his eyes.  Not from actual distaste but simply to keep up appearances.  Some of that is moderated now within this spell, dream, hallucination, _delirium tremens_.  Later, he knows, the memory of this moment will be painfully raw; he's never quite learned how to process intimacy, even the mere memory of it.  But for now. For now he's here. "Oh Lucio, only you would have a private collection of your own portraits."

 

_"It's not exactly portraits, Val.  I mean, my face is on it, but . . ."  Another giggle. I'm not quite sure why this makes me so happy, maybe because it feels like being a really naughty boy.  And I haven’t gotten to be that for so long now. "I'll need your help though with getting to them."_

 

He arches an eyebrow, but without the sneer that usually accompanies it.  Lucio's vanity, his teasing humor - these aren't things he'd thought he'd ever miss.  But he wants to indulge Lucio and, if he is honest, indulge himself. "Lead on then, you absolute peacock."

 

_"Don't forget about the impressive tail."  I grin and feel my teeth float in the air like the sickle of a yellow moon.  Hope he doesn't look up at this moment. "This way then."_

 

He snorts in amusement.  Of course, Lucio would turn that into a compliment - always had a talent for things like that.  And for a moment, he forgets that the ghost in front him looks nothing like Lucio. He can only see the Count's old smirk.

 

_"The bottom right corner of the frame.  There's a mechanism there to open a door.”_

 

Valerius retrieves his candle from the floor, thankful that it hadn't burnt out, and steps across the room, heels clicking against the floor, painfully loud in the silence of Lucio's movement behind him.  He bends over beside the massive portrait and runs a hand along the frame, feeling for anything that stands out.

There it is.  A slightly raised piece of the carving gives underneath his fingers.  He presses down, and the movement triggers a mechanism that swings the painting out from the wall.  The motion is slow enough to allow time to move before being knocked in the head by the heavy frame.  Clever, clever. He wonders if Nadia designed it. She had always seemed to prefer her tinkering to actual administration of the city.  Behind the painting, a low door opens on a dark staircase.

He glances back at Lucio, and the ghost gestures for him to go ahead.  He has to duck a bit to pass through the doorway, but once inside the ceilings are high enough that the space isn't claustrophobic.  High ceilings or not, his stomach starts to twist as he descends the stairs. Too much wine and not enough food, perhaps, but when he pauses and closes his eyes for a second he's hit by a wave of what he can't convince himself is anything other than a lost memory of dashing up the stairs in confusion, panic even, a shout from the top landing, and the roar of a fire catching.

A touch on his shoulder steadies him somewhat.  He takes a deep breath and continues down the stairs.  They turn a corner and open onto a small, but grandly appointed dining room.  The table is set for twenty two, the moldering remains of a feast laid out on it.  His lip twitches up in distaste. And then, as he steps down from the last stair, setting foot on the floor, he feels some strange force pulling him toward one of the chairs.

Lucio's fingers close around his arm; the sharp claws dig through the layers of fabric, halting his movement. 

 

 _"No, no.”  Don’t let the magic that remains here take control of him, please no, just let me have this one thing.  Other side of the room. There's a door hidden in the paneling." I'm rather proud of myself about the secret room behind the secret room.  Well, at first I only wanted one, but then I thought to myself 'Why only have one when you can have several?' The best thing about it was that one of the former rulers must have thought the same thing, and while we were making space, we stumbled into a whole network of hidden passages, some still intact, some broken down or sealed.  It was an adventure, or it would have been if I've had enough time to explore instead of doing count-ing. There may be some treasures hidden in there yet, or at least some bodies. Pretty sure at least some bodies, some of the dead ends smell pretty odd_.

 

He finds the second door easily enough.  It's outlined by seams in the paneling that are just a little wider than the others.  It swings open easily to a gentle push. The room beyond is small, intimate. Dusty plush furniture is grouped closely together.  When Val lifts his candle, which is growing distressing short, he can make out mirrored sconces on the walls, and he walks the perimeter, lighting each one in turn.

 

_"It's my private place" I say, somewhat proudly.  Hardly anyone knows it exists, and for sure not Noddy.  It was supposed to be for special guests, but in the end, it was mostly Lucio relaxing with Lucio. "Want to sit down for a bit?"_

 

Why not?  Besides, he's spotted a wine rack with several unopened bottles that won't have been destroyed by three years. And while Lucio's palate has never truly developed, it hadn't been atrocious either.  "Mind if I drink?”

 

 _"Have I ever?"  I enjoy a man with vices, and when they are so easy to satisfy as those, all the better._ _I wonder why I haven't come down here earlier.  It feels . . . so full of me. It's easier to remember here than it was upstairs, and gods, I'd kill for a glass._

 

That was one of Lucio's good qualities.  He was greedy and ostentatious, and also extremely generous with his friends.  There's a corkscrew convenient and glasses, but they're a lost cause under the layer of dust.  It won't be the first time Valerius has drunk straight from the bottle though in Lucio's presence.  He dusts off a red with his sleeve and takes it back to the seating area with him, sprawling on a sofa without his usual regard for decorum.

 

_"I fear you'll have to open it yourself this time."_

 

"I can manage."  If there's one thing that Valerius knows how to do, it's opening a bottle of wine.  The vintage is better than expected. It seems like the Count actually listened to his drunken rants about good varietals ever now and then.

 

 _I rattle at the drawer below the little table where I stashed the various herbs and powders I used to feel better.  And other things that I didn’t want Noddy to find. Old habits die hard. Yes, In here. "Help yourself, and open this at your leisure_."

 

He takes another drink from the bottle and sets it aside on the table before leaning forward to pull the drawer open.  Lucio’s stash hardly surprises him. Glass jars with tight stoppers. An elegantly curved pipe laid across the front of the drawer accompanied by the lamp to heat it.  Valerius arches his eyebrows and removes those. After all, this night is already a lost cause as far as anything akin to productivity is concerned.

 

 _"As a true opium eater, you of course have to be half naked between luxurious layers of fabric.  Something for the artists, and something for me if I can't have anything of the rest." Yes, this sounds reasonable enough, at least for this moment_ .  _Had I really never brought him down here when I was alive?  Never wrapped him velvet and posed him on this couch with an elegant curved pipe held to his pouting lips?  What a waste if I hadn't!_

 

"And just where do you propose getting this luxurious fabric?"  Another drink of wine. A deep one, and all the old feelings that Lucio used inspire in him come rushing back.  He undoes the brooch holding his shawl in place, letting it slide over his shoulders.

 

_"Right now I fear I can only offer furs."  I chuckle, even though he can't understand that one.  He can’t quite see me, and that’s well enough. I don’t want him to see me.  "The drawer. Feel the leather scroll under all the things? Take it out."_

 

Another drink.  He needs this. And needs the wine to keep him from trying to process.  He reaches back into the drawer, shawl slipping further down his shoulders as he does.  A tug on the fabric pulls it off him entirely. Underneath his fingers, the leather is buttery soft, and he slides it out of the drawer.

 

_"Have another one, and then open it up." I sit down at his side, like I would have if I still had a body, and tug his robe, just a little._

 

The pillow next to Val sinks down as someone, some _thing_ takes a place on it.  He still can't quite make out the form that Lucio's ghost has taken.  Tall. Oh, Lucio would like not needing to worry that his heels were just a bit higher than Nadia's, or Valerius's own.  Another drink. Red eyes. But that shouldn't be surprising, not for the spirit of a man who had been fending off death from the plague for as long Lucio had managed.  Is he repeating the same thoughts he had upstairs? Perhaps he is. Dreams often work like that. Patterns. Repetitions. His undoes the knot holding the lacings of his robe outer robe together.  Another tug from a not quite seen hand, and it slides off his shoulder. Val leans over as a cold hand slides down his back. He flicks the leather portfolio, letting it unroll across the low table.

What he finds are a few drawings lined in black ink, the faint marks of a pencil sketch just barely visible beneath.  Lucio drawn like one of those Prakran girls, naked except for his furs and his boots, in poses that certainly were not made for a public eye.  The last one though is different. A quick sketch of a vulnerable Lucio lounging without his golden arm, a cigarette between his lips, face serious for once, all the grandeur gone.  The artist must have caught him in a break, or in one of the rare dark moments, and the Count had _allowed_ and _kept_ it, even if it was just for this very private place.

These are better than the portrait (which he still might take); these are representations of Lucio himself, not the image of Lucio he cultivated so carefully for presentation to the public.  He runs a finger over the illustration. "These are . . . beautiful." That's the only word for them. And he says it, despite note being so sure that beautiful is the word that Lucio wants to hear it.  Magnificent, perhaps, he would prefer that. Beautiful sounds too soft, too human, or intimate, yet those are the right words for the sketches. And he wants them.

 

_"Beautiful?"  I'm surprised by his choice of words.  Would have gone for 'hot" or 'decent fapping material' maybe, but not for that.  I may be blushing, well at least I feel like I should be. "You can have them if you want.  Better than letting them rot down here."_

 

Val runs his hand over the parchment.  He'll certainly take these. They're more . . . discrete than a full body, wall sized portrait.  And closer to what he wanted anyway, much closer. The portrait is Lucio in his public persona. Still beautiful, but . . . not his.  This, well, this are the Lucio that caught him in some sort of spell. Some magic. Something that someone might call love, if that was a word that Valerius allowed himself to use.

 

_I wrap myself around him as he leaves through the artwork.  Jules made them, I think? I remember I started drawing on his pale skin with his ink and his feather when I grew bored posing, creating the patterns of the people of the south I remember so well.  He whimpered so sweetly whenever the quill scratched too deep, and we continued with it as I buried myself in him. Wasn't the worst night, not at all._

 

At first, Valerius is too busy _looking_ to notice the heavy cold that drapes over him. Something that might be a leg over his lap, and another one behind him, and a head heavy on his shoulder.  And then it was there, the sensation of a body wrapped around him. 

Lucio had always always been clingy in private.  Sometimes in public. All the various substances in his collection, yet physical contact was the drug he had really craved.  Valerius runs one hand over the leg in his lap. Muscular, yes, and coarse fur, like Lucio’s ghost had decided to haunt the palace in the barbarian finery that he had occasionally worn when he wanted to piss off Nadia.  But less cold than the hand on his chest upstairs had felt, as though something down here is making the ghost more alive. The wine is making everything hazy, distracting him from just how bizarre a situation he found himself in.  But, he shivered, either from the touch or from the cold, and he wasn’t really sure. This might call for something stronger.

 

_"You haven't eaten again today, have you?  It can't always be a banquet in my honor. Well, of course it should, but still."  Are you tipsy already, Consul? Back then, you could outdrink me easily, now you're barely holding together, and..._

_I stare down at my leg, amazed that I actually feel the warmth of his hand.  This cannot be. Asra said back in the day that the walls down here were thin, whatever that meant, that's why he insisted on having the ritual where they had it, but this is something else._

 

"Mmm . . . I had to excuse myself from dinner to deal with a situation.  Your delightful head of research." He raises his hand to his forehead rubbing at one temple, aching some; although, not nearly as bad as usual post an encounter with Valdemar.  His twists and rummages through the drawer again, lifting each of the jars and examining their contents.

 

_"Searching for something special, Val?"_

 

Clawed fingers dance over his scalp, messing up his braid, of course Lucio is going to mess up his hair - even as a ghost, but it's pleasant enough, easing the ache beginning in his temples.

"What do you think?"  He could swear that the fingers in his hair and the legs wrapped around his are even less chilled as they were just a moment before.

 

_"Probably not an aphrodisiac, mrh?" I chuckle.  Maybe. Hopefully. I always liked watching him touch himself with his long, elegant fingers, the despair in his face when he pleaded me to come and join him.  So delicious to have a pretentious patrician begging for me. All the better when I made him come apart in my arms. I lick along the shell of his ear - another habit I had forgotten, like teasing his hair from its braid and him from his clothes._

 

He shivers, feeling the trembling running all the way down his spine.  No way out of this now, even if he could have said that he wanted an escape.  "No . . . what did you call me earlier. A true opium eater."

 

_"Third one from the right, the silver cap.  You already found the pipe." It's a black substance in a dark glass, looking innocent enough.  "May I see you like I was allowed to back in the day, my little fawn?" Warmth and skin, those things I don't have anymore.  Warmth and skin and life. Such simple cravings._

 

Fawn.  He'd hated that as much as he loved it, back in the day.  A reference to the colors he favored wearing, a reference to the painfully clear fact that he was prey as far as Lucio was concerned.  The clawed fingers are tugging at the lacings of his lighter robe and his hand goes to them, pulling the gold cords loose, shrugging out of the silk, before retrieving the jar from the drawer.  Sticky poppy resin. There’s a tiny knife near the jar, convenient to pack it into the pipe without too much of a mess and a tightly stoppered bottle of oil that would fuel the lamp.

 

 _I hold my breath. Even if I always prided myself as a connoisseur of nudity in its various stages, it feels a little virginal right now, like it has been lifetimes since anyone . . . well, in a way, it has been, and I've been so very lonely.  Everything about him is still so very slender and elegant, and I trace the curve of his shoulder blade with my claw_.

 

Valerius shivers again, this time not even from the cold, so much as the mere touch.  He lifts the leg off his lap and gets up, ignoring his robe sliding off the sofa and into the floor.  He pauses to step out of his heels and pads across the plush carpet, fumbling for a moment to light the opium lamp with a taper.

 

_I drape myself across the space where he sat, pillows still warm from his body and chuckle darkly when notice I automatically end up in a position that is nothing but revealing.  Nobody can enjoy this view now, but then I don’t think that he can quite see me._

_"What worries you so much, my dearest consul?  You were never so ready and willing to escape like you are now. Aren't things better without me?  Everyone else here seems to think so when Noddy can hear it."_

 

"I'm not running, am I?”  Val pauses, choosing his words carefully.  "This is . . . Disconcerting." He's had dreams that are something like this, and each time he wakes up shaken and unsure and fumbling for a drink.  Easier to drown his emotions.  

The lamp will take a few minutes to warm up.  He sets it down on the table, fixes the chimney over it, and turns back to where Lucio is pulled - no pushed, because he thinks it's his own desire - toward Lucio.

 

_"Not from me.  From everything else?   A little." Grin. I'm running too.  Always was. Just did it with more style._

 

"Everything else is a nightmare."  

Lucio's form is still not clear, but he can see enough to recognize that the pose is entirely Lucio, sprawled on his back with one leg hanging off the couch.  Valerius can't help but smile at the familiarity of it. He rubs the back of his neck, before undoing the clasps down the front of his shirt and letting it fall into the floor.

 

_"Come to daddy."  I pat the pillow before me.  "Changes were never your thing.  How're coping with the old folks coming back?  Devorak? Asra's little bitch?"_

 

He sinks onto the cushion without his usual grace.  Blame it on the admittedly rattling nature of the events of the last few days.  Is there still something left in that bottle? Ah, yes, there is.  

"I haven't seen Devorak, and for his sake, I hope I don't.  I'd rather not have to arrest him twice." Not for something that he didn't do, that he couldn't have done.  Devorak was never a killer. Madness to have thought that, even in all that confusion.

 

_"I meant the gal with that, not Jules.  Honest mistake to make." I wrap around like a giant cat._

 

"The witch, you mean?  She could be worse." He sinks against the ghost's chest, powerful whatever else might be true of this form.

 

_"Do you trust her, then?"_

 

Claws run gently down his naked back and catch at the waistband of his pants.

"Do I _trust_ anyone?”  And trust the witch to do what?  She'll have her own goals at some point, once she's figured out more.  Goals beyond saving Devorak's skinny ass.  

The sensation on his back isn't quite the same as Lucio's metal hand, but the thin, sharp lines are close enough that he can pretend.  "Please, don't stop."

 

 _"The girl likes the good doctor.  She doesn't know it yet, but she does.  Question is only... do_ you _like her too?"  I press down slightly harder.  Is it envy I feel? That it's all around the magical girl all of a sudden, and not me, that magical girl living my life?  Not quite hard enough to draw blood, and I feel Valerius wince. Mumble a silent, but honest "Sorry"._

 

"She already knows she likes him.  I think she's liked him from the start of this entire farce with Nadia."  The claws on his back turn over, smooth side soothing over the scratches. "Do I like her?  As much as I like anyone, I suppose." He helped her earlier, when he didn't have to, when he didn't expect any gain for himself because of it.

 

 _"Do you_ want _her?" A part of me wants to hear a_ no _, and that surprises me as much as anyone. "The last years have been lonely, and I know you enjoy competence in others."  I curl around him a bit more; my head lands on his shoulders._

 

"No."  Valerius shakes his head.  Lonely or not, he doesn't want her.  As for competence, if that was the primary factor in his attractions, he wouldn't be here.  Or maybe it was all carryover from Luci's indisputable prowess in war. No matter. He rolls over and strokes the head on his shoulder, surprised by the coarseness understand his fingers instead of hair that's slightly sticky with too much pomade.

 

_I might be willing to work with . . .  No. No, I'm not. Not another deal, especially not with a traitor raised in Asra's stables.  Quietly humming under my breath. Val's presence calms me._

_"You wanted to light up, Consul.  Are you fine dreaming in the presence of a ghastly monstrosity, no matter what it might do to you?"_

 

Ghastly?  That seems strong, even if Valerius thinks he can feel horns.  As for a dream, perhaps this already is one, and unlike most it's one he wants to continue.  Uneasy and uncanny, yes. But also soothing and intoxicating with the knowledge that someone actually desires his presence.

"I've always trusted you too much.  Why stop now?” He reaches out and picks up the pipe, holding the bowl above lamp and once it’s heated through, taking a long draw.

 

_"Because you're still sober enough to realize you did.  The monster might ravage you, might tear you apart." I notice I'm getting hard as I'm saying this. Bad Count. Very bad Count. My claws in his hair again, dragging back his head just a little, just to make a point._

 

Valerius doesn't fight the pull on his hair.  He's long past that point, past trying to understand the conflicted emotions in him.  Past caring that he _shouldn't want_ to stay in this dissolute dream, and if a monster consumes him, so much the better.  After all, there was always something monstrous about Lucio. It has been part of the appeal, that reminder of the shadow side of human nature. "I want to stay."

 

_"Do you want me to be the monster in this, my sweet Valerius?  If you want to stay and dream, it is your decision . . ." For a heartbeat, I'm scared of what this body that is mine and yet is not might do to him, but in the end . . ._

 

"Let me have my dreams, Lucio."  He closes his eyes and turns his head.  "I don't have much else now."

 

_"As you like, my little fawn. As you like."_

 

The body above him is warm now, a little more _there_ , and Lucio is wearing more furs, or at least, that’s what he’s going tell himself.  A cool tongue slides along his jaw, his neck, and he trembles again, now not so much from fear as simple anticipation and pleasure.  Valerius wants to leave it at this thought as he reaches out for the pipe again.

After all, it's only a dream . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why get sidetracked with this as a subplot? Because Valerius is totally wasted in canon, except for the end of Nadia's route. And I like our bitchy little wino and the ship dynamics of an absolute loose canon and a pretentious patrician. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Feedback is, of course, welcome. :)


	22. There Was a Time When the Pieces Fit, But I Watched Them Fall Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Tool, "Schism"

The next morning, the markets are busier than usual, especially in the neighborhood where the tailors ply their trade.  Vivid fabrics are hung outside of windows, framing interior displays of elaborate costumes, and multiple temporary stalls hawking masks have appeared, cluttering the sidewalks and pushing foot traffic into the street proper.  Asra walks close, holding my hand. I’m easier in crowds than he is, at least, normally, when I’m in a decently good place.

“Is this what Vesuvia used to be like?”  I ask. He’s mentioned more than once that the city had never quite recovered after the plague.

“Closer.  The masquerade was always good for business.  You always liked it.” Asra pauses to look at a row of masks hanging in a stall.  “Never cared much for shopping for clothes otherwise. But costumes were different.”

That sounds accurate.  Nadia and Portia had added more to my wardrobe selections in one week than I had in the past three years.  And admittedly, the dark grey leggings and blousy green top, Portia had suggested this morning was once again nicer than anything I would have chosen, while still being practical enough for an excursion to the city and wherever Asra’s friend lived.

“Did you ever try to help me get my memories back?”

Asra’s hand tightens around mine, thumb running over my knuckles.  “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“It was a couple months after, after it happened.  You weren’t talking much yet, but you were reading all the time.  I gave you a stack of your old journals, old letters, some that hadn’t been opened.  You seemed fine, so I went out to the market to pick up a few things.” He stops and lifts my hand to his mouth, pressing my fingers to his lips.  “When I came back, you were curled in on yourself, around a book I can’t read, shaking and sobbing and holding your head, and I couldn’t get you to stop.  Artemis couldn’t get you to stop. You wouldn’t talk, we could barely get you to eat, you wandered off in the night, and I couldn’t find you for hours. Whatever it was you had found, it was too much for you.  That went on for nearly two weeks, and then, I -” He steps back against a wall, pulling me with him, and wraps his arms around my shoulders. “I found a way to make you forget again.”

“You did what?”  I jerk away from him, heart pounding and blood rushing to my face.  “I remembered something and _you took it away_!”

“Dema, listen, whatever it was that you remembered - It _broke_ you again.”

“Goddammit, Asra!  How dare you, how fucking dare you!”

“Should I have left you like that?  Barely with us. Even Artemis thought -”

Fucking hell, _Artemis too_.  “So you held a vote?  Is that supposed to make it any better?  That you decided to take back something of my life.  Something of who I am?” I turn on my heel and stalk away from him, back into the foot traffic of the street.  I don’t actually care what his answer is. I found something of mine. And he decided to take it away from me. My temples start to pound.  Light bursts behind my eyes and my vision drops away for a moment, returning to me, but bringing with it a crushing vice. A hand catches under my elbow as a stagger and guides me away from the crowd, to a quiet alley.

“Shh . . .”  Cool fingertips ghost over my temples.  “Dema. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”  

I turn my face away from him.  “Don’t make me forget again, Asra.  You don’t get to make decisions for me.”  His fingers trace along my jaw. “Don’t, or I swear to God, I will find some way to remember what you’ve done, and you will never see me again.” 

“I won’t.  I promised.”

I let him tilt my face back to him.  His eyes are bright and intense and, I think, honest.  He means it. Or at least, I think he means it. I want to.  I close my eyes and breath deeply, willing the worst of the headache away.  “Okay, let’s go get Julian.”

* * *

Julian answers the door to Mazelinka’s hut, stooping low to fit through the frame.  “You're here. You got away okay?” He grabs my shoulders and looks me over carefully, as if I might somehow have been injured walking through the palace gardens last night.  He peers carefully at my face, then his eyebrows lower. “Are you alright?”

“I am.  Just got upset at something in the market.”

“She's fine, Ilya.”  Asra's voice has a hard edge to it, as if he's responding to something more than Julian's current concern.

“Asra!”  Julian's one exposed eye goes wide.  “You, you're here.”

“No, Ilya, I'm a hallucination.”

I look over my shoulder to glare at Asra.  “Would you quit?”

“Here now, what's this?”  Mazelinka pulls Julian back into her house.  “Huh. There’s two of you. Well, do you need an invitation, come on in?  Tell me you’re here to take this boy off my hands, he’s driving me crazy.”  She looks Asra up and down and chuckles. “Hmm, you’re a colorful character, aren’t you?” 

Julian works his way to the back corner of the room, as far from Asra as he can manage.  Asra ignores him in favor of surveying the contents of Mazelinka’s kitchen, which to be fair, are anything except mundane.  Mazelinka watches him with an amused expression on her face.    

I follow Julian and slide my arm around his waist.  He smiles and pulls me against him, hands running over my shoulders and back, but he still looks worried, even as he leans over and kisses the top of my head.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“Surprisingly, yes.  Mazelinka didn’t even have to sneak a potion into me.”

“Asra thinks a friend of his might have some information that will help you.”

“Asra?”  He looks across the room where Asra has actually started opening the jars and containers hodgepodged on the shelves.  “Asra is going to help me? He can’t stand me.”

 Mazelinka swats Asra’s hand away from one enticingly large crock with her wooden spoon.  “Mind yourself, child. That might be what I keep the grumpkins in.” Asra pulls his hand back and tries one of his smiles on her.  She simply arches her eyebrows in response. His usual tactic of charm isn’t going to work on her.

  “Asra.”  His attention turns to me when I say his name, and his face tightens, I assume from seeing Julian with his arm around me.  “Where does the friend you mentioned live?”

“The forest.  Walk is an hour or so.  Maybe a little more.”

“And you, uh, you think he has information for me.”

“I know he does.”

“Hmph.”  Mazelinka doesn’t sound especially impressed.  “I suppose you’ll need lunch.” She shoves a basket at Asra and gestures to the table.  “Make yourself useful, that garlic won’t braid itself, and I need to get it hung and drying today.  You two help him. I’ll pack you something to eat.”

Julian fills two mugs with coffee before joining us at the table.  He sits down next to me and slides one the mugs into my hands. “Um, sorry, Asra, I don’t think there’s any tea ready.”  Asra rolls his eyes hard enough that I’m surprised to not hear them rattling in his skull.

Mazelinka appears beside us with a small teapot and a cup which she sets in front of Asra.  “Ilya, I know you were raised to be better to guests than that. Now, go get the other basket from out back.” 

Julian rolls his eyes easily as dramatic as Asra, gulps down some of his coffee, and gets back up, heading to the back of the house.  Asra selects three from the basket and lays them out on the table, beginning to work the long stalks into a tight braid. He raises his eyes to me.  “I really am trying to help.” He adds a fourth bulb to the braid, then pours tea for himself. “Please say you believe me.”

“I think I do.  I want to.” That might as well be my new mantra as far as Asra goes.  I want to.

Julian drops another basket on the table and glances over at Asra’s work.   “Not like that.” He lifts the braid off the table and starts to add another bulb.  “You don’t want a flat chain, the bulbs should sort of, uh, spiral around. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you this?”

Asra freezes then his hands start to shake.  The temperature in the room seems to drop by several degrees.  “My parents disappeared when I was eight.”

The air could be cut with a knife.  Faust raises her head from where she’s been hiding in Asra’s shirt and hisses at Julian.

“I, um, Asra, I’m sorry.”  Julian sits back down next to me and picks up several garlic stalks of his own, deftly working them together into the start of a chain.  “Sorry.”

Asra takes drink of his tea, sets the cup aside, and picks his own braid back up.  “You didn’t remember. You were kind about it when you knew.” A heavy sigh. “I’m sorry too.  I never meant for things to end up like this.” He blinks rapidly then takes another sip of his tea.  “I didn’t know.”

I reach across the table and touch the back of his hand.  He’s still trembling. “What happened?”

He shakes his head, then laughs.  It’s bitter and hollow and haunting.  “Here’s the worst thing: I don’t remember either.”

“You don’t remember.  Remember what?”

“What happened at the last masquerade.  Not any detail. I know I did something.  But not what.”

“Asra, in the library, I found a note in your handwriting in an old -”    

Mazelinka drops a large bundle in front of me, cutting off the question before I can finish it.  “That should feed the lot of you. Make sure Ilya eats.” She punches him playfully in the stomach then ruffles his hair when he doubles over dramatically.  “Now, get out of here and leave an old woman in peace for a bit.”

Outside, I stop to work Mazelinka’s bundle into a string bag I keep in my pocket.  Asra kneels down to examine the herbs outside of the house: rosemary, oregano, parsley, and several other more specialized plants.  “Ilya, you never told me your grandmother was a witch.”

Julian looks up from petting a chicken that scratching through the yard looking for scraps and insects.  “What? Mazelinka’s not a witch. Those are just herbs. Classic cooking, you know.”

“If you say so.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Dema asked me to help.”  A goose starts toward Asra, honking madly, wings raised and flapping like a landed fish.  Asra jumps up and backs away, hands stretched out before him in appeasement. “I thought about sending you on some elaborate scavenger hunt for the fun of it, but Faust talked me out of it.   Come on, we’re headed for the forest north of town.” 

* * *

The forest begins as olive groves, younger trees on the outskirts that are carefully tended, surrounded by soft, low growing grass.  Further back the tree start to lose their careful order, gaps left behind where trees have died and been removed. A few that have fallen on their side have been neglected where the olives give way to the twisting trunks of cedar and finally to forest giants that shade the floor, cooling the air and obscuring the time of day.  Cedar resin and the earthy scent of leaves breaking down scent the still air. It’s soothing - grounding and peaceful. The same natural spell seems to be working on Asra, who is contentedly humming a tune as he walks beside me.

“Asra, who's this friend?  I don't remember meeting anyone who lives out in the forest.”

“Muriel.  You've met him.”  Asra pauses, drapes Faust around my shoulders and kneels down to gather an herb from beside the pathway.  “Recently. But people forget him. He's under a spell.” He digs around the base of a plant with five leaves centered around a cluster of red berries.

Julian is several paces before us circling around a tree and talking to himself about the size of it.  He pauses and pulls his glove off, touching the papery bark that hangs in strips from the gnarled trunk.  I stroke Faust's smooth head. To be forgotten? That might be worse than forgetting, at least I still have people who care about me - a few anyway.  “That sounds awful.”

“It's what he wanted.”  Asra lifts a twisted branching root from the soil.  Ginseng. “I'm not sure why the spell excluded me, but I'm glad it did.  He's my oldest friend.” He stands, shakes the worst of the dirt from the root, and tucks it into his bag.  “And, I’m glad your two are meeting. Again.”

“Dema, Asra,”  Julian's voice is uncharacteristically quiet.  “Did either of you hear that?”

“Ilya -”  Asra sounds annoyed again.

I put a hand on his shoulder and touch a finger to his lips.  I _can_ hear dry leaves crunching off to the side of the pathway.  Faust coils tighter around my shoulders. _“Danger.”_   Heeding her nerves, I put my hand to the knife at my belt.  I can see Asra’s fingers twitching with the beginning of a spell.  He leans over, picks up a rock and lobs it in the general direction of the noise.

A crack of a branch snapping then a rustling of dried leaves and brambles.  A large figure - indistinct, but somehow I know that the trees are doing me a favor, blocking the sight of something my mind wouldn’t be able to make sense of anyway - runs in the opposite direction.  There’s the smell of death - decomposition - in the air, not the natural return of vegetation to soil, but something sick and wrong. Julian jumps in front of me, but before he blocks my line of sight, I can make out two glowing red eyes.  Asra runs after the creature, light crackling around his hands.

“What was that?”  Julian’s hands are firm on my shoulders.  He’s scared I might go running after Asra.

“Large, white - was it Lucio?”  I didn’t really think so. It seemed larger, and somehow much more menacing that the Count’s half mad shade.

Julian shakes his head.  He’s biting his lip and looking around nervously.  “I think it may be worse. Much, much worse.”

“Who?”

His eye darts to the right, like he’s searching for a word that he can’t find.  One gloved hand slid down my arm as I raised one of my hands to his chest. His heart is pounding, faster even than mine.

Behind me leaves crackle as Asra runs back to us.  I can feel his warmth at my back. One of his hands closes around my shoulder and the other reaches past to touch Julian’s arm almost tenderly.  “Are both of you alright?”

“I’m okay.”

A moment of quiet as Asra presses his lips to the top of my head.  “Ilya?”

“Yeah, yeah.”  Julian opens his eye again.  “I’m, um, I’m alright. What was it?”

“I don’t know.  The sooner we get to Muriel's, the happier I will be.”  He turns away from us and sets back off down the path. Julian finally notices Faust wrapped around my neck, jumps in surprise and then follows Asra.  I stroke Faust's head again, more to reassure myself than her. She's a very sensible snake, after all, probably the most sensible in our little traveling circus.

* * *

Thunder rolls in the distance and the leaves in the top of the canopy rustle as heavy drops of rain begin to fall through them, reaching us after they’ve whispered their way through the trees.  It’s a summer rain, the falling water is warmer than the forest cooled air around us. Asra begins to hum again, mood improving rapidly. And my own follows as a splash through a puddle of water.  I’ve always loved the rain, longer than I can remember. I’m sure of it. I cup my hands in front of me and funnel enough water into them with magic to sneak up on Asra and splash the back of his head.  He spins on his heel and retaliates, pushing a burst of rain into my face then reaching over to brush the water droplets from my cheek. The game continues as we walk, rain pushed and pulled by magic in waves around us until we’re both soaked and giggling like small children.        

Julian watches us in disbelief and wraps himself tighter in his coat, shaking his head.  On the pretense of stopping to look at a plant, Asra drops back behind him. He gathers a floating sphere of water.  With a devilish grin - the most genuine expression I’ve seen on his face today - he drops it on Julian before jogging back up and grabbing my arm.

“What the hell!”  Julian splutters.

I look back over my shoulder and smile sweetly while batting my eyes.  I’ll play along with Asra’s prank. “What, darling?” Julian’s auburn curls are plastered to his head and turned nearly black by the water. “Oh, you’re drenched.  Have you been walking in the rain?”

“You two are impossible!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you don’t?”  Julian looks around then seizes opportunity in the form of a broad leaved plant that caught a sizable amount of water.  He sntches it from beside the path and tosses the water back at Asra before using his height to knock bat at a limb over Asra’s head shaking more water down on him.  “Ha!” He grins at having figured out a way to join in us. “Thought I couldn’t get you back.”

Asra laughs in delight.  “Clever, Ilya!” He runs further down the path, Julian with another of the broad leafed rain catching plants held in both hands.

“What do you think, Faust? Shall we lock them in a room together until they fight it out? Or fuck it out?”

Faust turns her head to me and brushed her tongue against my cheek.  “ _Fuck?”_

“Yeah. That's where my money is.”

Asra calls my name. I roll my eyes and trot after them, before one - or both - decide to come back and pull me after them.

* * *

Asra stops in front of an ancient tree.  Ten people with their arms outstretched might be able to circle it - might.  “Here we are.” A rough dwelling of tightly stacked but unmortared stone, is built into its roots.  Asra goes to the door and begins to trace a series of sigils on it.

“Your friend is a magician too?”  Julian doesn’t sound overly pleased.

“Mhum.  This kind of thing is his specialty: wards, protections, anything like that.”  His tracings light up like fire for a moment, then fade into the door. Asra pushes it open a crack and calls out a greeting before opening it entirely.  “He’s not home, but it’ll be okay if we wait inside.”

The inside is small, but tidy and meticulously organized.  The ceiling is high, built well up into the hollow of the tree.  Julian doesn’t have to stoop, either going through the door or once inside.  Shelves are built along the walls, one corner houses a bed piled high with comfortable looking furs and the opposite one has a table and chairs built plainly from rough hewn, but strong, wood.  Across from the door the remains of a fire glow gently in a stone hearth.

Asra goes to one of the shelves and picks through the contents.  He finds a piece of clean, dry toweling and presents it to Julian, presumably as a peace offering.  “Go ahead and sit down. I’ll get some firewood.”

I set Mazelinka’s bundle down on the table and let Faust, languid from the cool rain, down beside the hearth before taking the towel from Julian.  “If you sit down, I can actually reach your hair to dry it off.”

“You know, I could do that for myself.”  Despite his grumbling, he takes off his coat and sits down in one of the chairs.  I step between his legs and toss the fabric over his head, scrunching and rolling his hair between the layers.  Worst of the damp wicked away, I drop the towel on the table and finger comb his hair back from his face before kissing his forehead.

“Better?”

“Much.”  He looks me up and down.  “You look like a drowned kitten, yourself.”

“Still breathing though.”

“Yes but -”  He takes the towel off the table and dabs at my face.  “You’ve got to be cold. Look you’ve even got gooseflesh on your arms and your -”

“Decolletage?”

“What?”

“Chest.”

“Oh, yes, well.”  He smirks and leans his head forward to kiss my collarbone then lays his cheek against my chest, as his hands wrap around my waist.  “It’s a perfectly normal physiological reaction, but a sign of the body trying to preserve heat...”

I laugh and cast a spell that wicks the water from my clothes and into the air.  “Julian, I’m fine, I pro -”  

My protest is interrupted by the door of the hut being kicked open by quite possibly the largest man I’ve ever seen.  Julian lifts his head. The space suddenly feels much smaller. He’s carrying a bundle of fur in his arms and has a scowl on his face.  Is this Asra’s friend? He looks at us, shakes his head as if he isn’t surprised, then promptly ignores us to lay his burden down - very gently - on the fur piled bed.  Straightening back up, he looks both of us over with melancholy green eyes. “What are you two doing here?”

“Umm, we’re with Asra.  He went to get some firewood.”  There’s a canid whine from the bundle he set down.  I peer around his bulk. Curled in the furs is a large, black wolf.  Her snout and side are covered in blood. “Is she hurt?”

He smooths a hand over the wolf’s back and doesn’t reply.  It was a stupid question on my part. I hope Asra gets back soon.

“I might able to help her.”  Julian ventures cautiously standing up from his chair.  He pulls off his gloves and touches his throat.

The man glares, eyes going hard as he kneels down beside the wolf, cautiously pushing fur away from the wound in her side.  “Don’t. Touch. Her.”

The wolf whines again, more piteously this time.  The big man strokes her head and his eyes soften again.  He looks like he might cry himself. “Please, Muriel -” That was the name Asra had said, right?  “Let him help.”

“He _can_ help Inanna, Muriel.”  Asra pushes through the door with an armload of firewood.  Does he know about the mark on Julian’s neck and his ability to heal?  I don’t think I told him.

Muriel gives Julian a decidedly skeptical look, then nods.  Julian approaches the wolf, hands held out and up in front of him.  She snarls at him, then calms as Muriel strokes her back. Julian kneels beside them and lets the wolf sniff his open palm before speaking softly to her.

“That’s a good girl.”  He runs his hand lightly over her bloodied side.  “You must be in a lot of pain. It’s okay, I can help you.”  He presses his hands against her side and closes his eyes. The mark on his throat glows briefly, and jagged, bloody gouges appear on his arms.  He manages to stand, then staggers back. I grab his upper arms, hoping that the cuts don’t go that far up and help him back into the chair. The wounds are already healing, but they’re deep and clearly not the good kind of painful, and there’s blood seeping into one side of his shirt.  He leans over, elbows and his knees, and head in his hands. I rub his shoulders in sympathy.

Muriel checks over Inanna carefully, examining each paw and opening her mouth.  Finally, he nods in satisfaction and looks back at us. His eyes are still stormy but no longer acutely miserable.  “Thank you.”

“Ah, don’t mention it.”  Julian grans and leans against me.  “Got to be good for something.”

Asra walks over the hearth and sets down his load of firewood.  He picks up Faust and curls her around his shoulders before adding a log to the embers.  It catches quickly, flames lick up the sides curling through the dry, stringy bark. A ringing, thin and reedy, begins in my ears, quickly swelling along with the flames.  My vision goes fuzzy, darkening around the edges, and the room suddenly feels far away, and I’m falling . . .

Hands at my waist stop me from collapsing into the floor.  I blink rapidly, clearing my vision enough to see Julian looking at me.  His one uncovered eye is wide with worry.

“Dema?” Asra looks at me, face filled with concern.  “Shit. I didn’t think.”

“I’m . . . I’m okay.”  I take a deep breath, steady myself on Julian’s shoulder, and drag a second chair to where I can sit, and Julian will block most of my view of the hearth and the fire burning in it.  I take one of Julian’s hands and busy myself with checking on the still healing wounds. The wolf must have been hurt badly. Julian’s watching me with concern, but his face is tight with pain and for once he isn’t talking.  “I’m fine, really.”

“Okay.”  Asra doesn’t sound convinced.  “Umm, introductions. Dema, Julian, this is my friend Muriel.  Muriel, Dema and Julian.” Muriel doesn’t look impressed. Asra sighs and leans over to scratch Inanna between the ears.  She licks his hand in greeting. “What happened to Inanna, Muriel?”

“She got a bite of something, and it got a swipe at her.  Big, white thing, but I couldn’t get a good look at it, moving too fast.  She says it tasted foul.”

Asra and I exchange a look over Julian’s shoulder.  Big, white, and fast moving describes the absolutely unnatural creature we saw just now.  I look at the wolf with newfound respect. She is brave if she attacked that thing. Of course, now she’s curved next to Muriel, licking his arm like the gentlest of lap dogs.

“Muriel, have you checked your wards recently?”

“Just now.  When I sensed something threatening in the forest.”

“All of them?  Even the one at the top of the tree?”

Muriel’s lips twist.  “Forgot that one.”

“We should probably go check that one as well.”

“Why don’t we eat lunch first?”  I suggest. The gouges on Julian’s arms have closed up, but he still has his head clutched in his hands again, and his skin is even paler than usual.  “Muriel, we have a packed lunch, there’s plenty to share, I’m sure.” One thing that I’ve noticed the hut is missing is anything recognizable as food. I start unpacking the bundle from Mazelinka, happy to have something that diverts my attention from the fire, even if the flares of a new log catching have died down to a steady crackle.  There’s a fresh loaf of bread, cheese, olives, a crock of hummus cleverly sealed up with beeswax, and - oh! - fresh cherries.

“That’s a good idea.”  Asra sits down on a bench on the other side of the table, and Muriel cautiously joins him.  I break the bread into four roughly equal pieces and hand them around, nudging Julian gently.  He raises his head and grins weakly at me when he takes the bread. Across the table, Asra gives half of his own piece of bread to Muriel and says something about having had a really rich breakfast at the palace that morning.  True, but I can tell he’s concerned about the lack of food in the dwelling.

After we’ve finished eating or mostly finished, I’m polishing off the last of the cherries; Asra, knowing how much I love them, ceded his share to me - Julian pulls out the key we found in the library yesterday.  

“Have either of you seen this before?”

Asra looks expectantly at Muriel.  Muriel looks down at the table, responding with his eyes averted.  “Yes.”

We wait a moment, but he doesn’t continue.  

“Care to elaborate?”

Muriel rolls his shoulders.  “It was . . . the night of the fire.  Asra sent me to find you.”

Julian looks over at Asra, eyes flashing with anger and confusion.  “You were there. Why don’t I remember any of this?”

Asra responds with silence.  He’s keeping his face still, but I noticed a slight twitch of surprise when Muriel said that Asra sent him for Julian.  Is this one of the things that Asra has forgotten?

Muriel speaks again, staring off into some unseen distance. “Asra gave me the key.  Sent me down the dungeons to get you. You’d been locked up, and you were half dead, delirious and talking about laughing ravens.  Brought you - dragged you - to a private dining room, where -” He stops, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath before continuing with his eyes still closed.  “Something happened. Something I don’t understand. And I don’t like. Nadia, _him_ , the court, Asra had them all gathered.  After, Lucio staggered up a staircase. I followed.  I wanted - it doesn’t matter what I wanted. You and the Consul ran after me.”  Muriel’s gaze drops, and Asra curls his hands around Muriel’s much larger ones. “At the top, Lucio was already in flames.”

Asra watches Julian intently.  Julian is silent for a long moment before speaking slowly.  “The fire -” He pauses and starts over again. “The fire had already started.  It had already started! I’m - I’m innocent.” He holds up his branded hand, considering the mark.  “I’m innocent.”  

One of his hands traces across his eyes; the other touches his throat.  A strange, fey look passes over his face, and he pulls the eyepatch off, blinking rapidly in the light.  Neither Asra or Muriel appear surprised by the state of his eye. “I remember now. I was in the dungeon.  Lucio locked me down there to find a cure for the plague.” He looks particularly pained as he says the words, as though he felt shocked and betrayed by that action.  “I wasn’t working fast enough. For him, or for me. And -” His voice trails off. He glances up and to the right before looking directly at me. “- I found it. I was dying . . . but whatever it was I found it must have worked.  I’m alive and the plague is gone.” He grabs my hands and presses his forehead against them before looking back up. His mouth, hanging open in wonder, slowly curls into a triumphant smile that then turns to a laugh. “I didn’t kill Lucio.”

Across the table, Asra is smiling faintly, one hand still curled around Muriel’s in reassurance.  Muriel still stares off into the distant, expression stricken. Recalling that night must have been truly painful for him.  Sensing his mood, Inanna comes to the table, and nudges his leg until he reaches down and curls one hand into her fur.

“I’m afraid that’s not quite true.”  Asra’s voice is hesitant.

Julian turns away from me to look across the table.  “What do you mean?”

“The plague being gone.  I think . . . You remember the red beetles?”

I’ve heard of the beetles with their glossy carmine shells.  They infested the city during the plague, appearing at the same time the water turned red.  Beside me, Julian shivers, and his face pales again. “Yes.”

“The past several days, while I was gone.  I passed through one of the villages nearby.  Their well had gone dry, and they asked me for help to try to restore the water.  Beneath it, I found more water. And a swarm of the plague beetles.”

We’re all quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in.  Julian speaks first. “Had anyone in the village sickened?”

Asra shook his head.  “Not when I left. I thought Nadia needed to know.  And then when I return, there’s an ongoing manhunt for you, and Lucio’s ghost is manifesting in the palace.”

Julian leaves over the table and pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Oh, that’s, that’s bad. Awful. Um, we’ve got to find that dungeon.  I don’t remember where it is. It’s coming back, I think, maybe, but everything - everything is still foggy.”  He grimaces and rubs at his temple. It’s a look that I find all too familiar, and I rub the back of his neck as he continues.  Maybe that will alleviate some of the headache. Helps mine sometimes. “Whatever I found, whatever the cure was, it could still be down there.  Asra? Muriel? Do either of you remember where it is?”

Muriel just shakes his head.  Asra frowns. “I wish I did, Ilya.  I might - I should, especially if the plague may be coming back, and Lucio is somehow trying to reenter the world, speak with my master.”

“I want to check that last ward.”  Muriel says quietly. “And maybe cast runes.  See if they’ll tell me anything.”

Asra nods.  “Usual place?”

“It’s safest there.”

“Okay then.”  Asra rises from the table and steps behind Muriel, folding his hands over the massive shoulders and squeezing them.  “Up for another bit of a hike?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And back to the main plotline.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	23. If the World Exploded Out Behind Us, I Never Noticed If It Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Queens of the Stone Age, 'The Way You Used to Do"

Asra tidies up the remains of our lunch efficiently, putting aside the few things that remained uneaten on one of the shelves.  I get another towel from one of the shelves and soak it in water before starting to clean the remaining dried blood off of Julian’s arms and his side.   Asra looks back over his shoulder at Julian and me, brow furrowed with worry. He runs his hand through his hair and bites his lip. “Maybe you two should stay here.  Rest some. Muri and I can handle this.”

I glance over at him and shake my head.  “No. I want to come.”

“Are you sure?”  Julian touches my face.  “Whatever we saw is still out there.”

“It would be safer if you just stayed here.”  Asra echoes him.

Between the two of them, the only way real danger I’m in is being smothered.  “Oh, for god’s sake, I -”

Muriel pauses from gathering materials from the shelves and clears his throat.  “She comes, if she wants.”

“Thank you.  I do.”

“It probably is time you met my master.  We’ll just be careful."  Asra sighs and looks from me to Julian.  "Ilya, are you feeling well enough?”

Julian stands and stretches, rolling his shoulders.  “I’m good. Right as rain.”

The non metaphorical rain has stopped, but Asra wraps me up in a heavy blanket before we follow Muriel further into the forest and to the ancient oak tree that houses the last of his wards in the top branches.  He wraps his hands in leather and scales the tree with more agility than I would have expected from someone his size. Inanna sits down at the base of the tree, tracking his progress carefully.  

Asra waits until Muriel’s out of earshot, then beckons Julian and me to him.

“Ilya, I’m happy for you.”

“Couldn’t you have just told me?”

“No, I couldn’t.  I’ve forgotten parts of that night, too.  Not as much as you, or Nadi, but some. And Muriel - it’s hard for him to talk about it - so I never pushed him.  Not before today. There are a lot of things Muriel finds it hard to talk about. The way we grew up, things he did to protect me, the things Lucio made him do . . .” Asra’s voice trails off then picks back up.  “But -” Eyes soft, he beams at Julian and takes his hand, looking - for the briefest of moments - shy. “You’re innocent. That's the important thing. No don’t go doing something stupid like dieing for a crime you didn’t commit.”

Julian’s expression is a mixture of wonder and disbelief - and longing.  His fingers fold around Asra’s. They’ve bickered all day, but right now, they’re old lovers caught between fondness and pain.

With an abrupt thud, Muriel descends from the tree, terminating the moment.

“It’s still out there.”

Asra looks away from Julian.  “You saw it.”

Muriel rubs his temples.  His features are contorted in disgust and possibly a little fear.  “Yes. I can’t describe it. But I saw it.” Inanna noses his leg, and he pets her, I think, to reassure the both of them.  “Something is off about it. More than off. Monstrous.”

* * *

Asra and Muriel’s preferred place for whatever they have planned is the treeless peak of what could be described either as a short mountain or a tall hill.  Night has fallen, and I'm exhausted by the time we reach the top. I'm used to walking but not to inclines. With the exception of the palace, Vesuvia is flat city, built largely on land reclaimed from the sea. 

Perhaps a view is required this process, for the one at the top of the mountain is spectacular.  The waning moon peeks through the veil of the remaining clouds. If you look out, you can see the spires of the palace, limned by moonlight and beyond that the dim lights of the city.

Muriel circles the clearing, replacing small stones in patterns, and adding pinches of herbs to what I assume are wards that protect the area.  He unfolds a rectangle of white fabric from one of his bags and spreads it out on the ground in front of him. With a huff, he sits down with Inanna curled beside him.  He takes a smaller bag from his belt and pours the contents into his hand checking over them carefully, before closing his eyes and breathing deeply. Asra leaves Faust with them, coiled up in Inanna’s warm fur and touches Muriel on the shoulder once again before walking away.

Asra pulls Julian and I far enough away that we won’t bother Muriel.  Julian looks around the bare mountain top, clearly confused. “Where’s this master of yours?”

“One of the magical realms,” Asra says as it’s perfectly normal to have a teacher in another dimension.  He unwraps the blanket from around my shoulders and shakes it out. It seems to expand as he does, easily covering enough space for all three of us to sit together once laid out on the ground.   “Dema, you and I will need to travel together in a trance.” Asra settles on the ground in a meditative posture, legs crossed in front of him. “Ilya, keep watch and try not to bother Muriel.”

Julian doesn't look very happy about the vague instructions and mutters something about magicians and magicky things.  I grip his hand reassuringly. “We may learn something important.” I settle down across from Asra mirroring his posture, knees touching his.  Julian crouches next to me.

“Is this safe, Asra?”

“Dema will be safe _with me_.”  There's a note of irritation in his voice.  I groan inwardly, hoping that they don't start sniping at each other again.

“Julian, please, I'm doing this.”  I take Asra's hand in mine.

His eyes twinkle as he smiles at me.  Whatever reservations he had about bringing me seem to have passed.  He pulls out his tarot deck and searches through it before laying the Magician down between us.  “Good. Now close your eyes and let your mind clear.” He takes my hands in his, twining our fingers together.  “Like you’re doing a reading.”

I close my eyes and focus my attention on my breath, letting my consciousness drift into the dark.  Slowly the dark is replaced by a sort of forest glade, saturated with jewel tones. The meadow surrounds a pond of gently glowing aquamarine water that is slowly shrinking and increasing in size, lapping around my toes.  Asra sits, cross-legged, on the surface of the water, smiling beatifically.    

“Dema, you made it.” 

A tiny bird, lime green and magenta, flits past my nose.  “What is this place?”

“It’s a gate, a constructed halfway point between the world we know and the numinous.  Most magicians make their own at some point.” He looks about and blushes slightly. “I made this one when I was pretty young.  It might be a bit juvenile.”

“It’s beautiful!”  The sky is caught in a sunset, or perhaps a sunrise, or some other word that describes when the rose and gold tones surround all the edges of the horizon, filtering into the deeper violet directly above their head.  

Asra smiles.  “I wonder what your gate looks like.”

“Do I have one?”

“I know you did.”  He looks away from me and reaches out a hand for a tiny golden butterfly to land on.  “I don’t know if it will be the same once you find it again.”

“When are you going to tell me what happened?”

Suddenly he’s sitting on the ground next to me instead of on the surface of the water.  He reaches up, takes my hand and pulls me down beside him. “Do you trust me that what I have told you is the truth?  Just not all of it.”

“I think so.”  Frustrating as he is, Asra has never really given me a reason to think that his motives where I am concerned are anything other than beneficent.  Complicated, but at least, his intentions are good. I don’t take my hand away from him. He holds it in his lap tracing lightly over the lines in my palm, lingering on my broken lifeline.

“When I’ve tried to tell you more, or even when something happens that hits too close to your past . . .  Your headaches are the least of it. That first time was the worst, but still you’d dissociate completely, sometimes for days at a time when you stumbled over a reminder.  So, I stopped trying to tell you anything, and started trying to keep you from running into hints from your past.” He looks back up at me, eyes glassy. “It wasn’t a decision I wanted to make for you, but I had to keep you safe.  It’s impossible to balance with not making decisions for you.”

“Asra, I need to know.”

“I can’t bear to lose you again.”

“If I don’t know who I am, can you even say that you have me?”

“I’m scared of what could happen.”

I wrap my arms around him and lean my head against his shoulder.  “Have more faith in me.”

“I’ll try.”  He kisses the top of my head and stands up, wading out into the water.  “Are you ready to meet my master?”

“Why not?”  I walk out to him and take his extended hand.  The water is pleasantly warm and peppers my legs with effervescent bubbles.  Asra continues, the pond slopes down steeply, and I realize we're going to submerge entirely.

“Don't worry, you'll be able to breathe if you want, but there's not necessarily any need.  Not here.” Hand still holding mine, he sinks himself into the water, pulling me after him.

The next thing I'm aware of is the crashing noise of a wave washing us into a wide, sandy beach.  Like Asra's gate, the colors here are vibrant and other worldly. Pink sand, a deep purple sky, a sea that glitters as the waves crash - but while I can see and hear, I feel disconnected. Neither the grit if the sand beneath my feet nor Asra's hand in mine feels quite right.  If this is a deeper plane of reality it's a subtle and disconcerting one.

“Are you alright, Dema?”  In the shifting light it looks like Asra's aura is blending into the sky itself - being siphoned away into the stuff of this realm.  It’s perplexing and unsettling, and I don’t think I like it at all.

“Let's find this mentor of yours and ask the questions we came to.”

Asra looks down the beach.  I follow his gaze to a curving palm.  Indigo footprints spiral around the tree, leading down to the beach, where a figure manifests before us.  The Magician - he appears just as he is painted on Asra's card - a fox headed, humanoid figure with violet eyes.

“Ah, Asra, you have returned.”  The Magician's uncanny gaze falls on me.  “And Dema is with you. Do you recognize my voice, little one?”

Much to my surprise, I do.  I've heard the Magician speak, just never in words.

“Master.”  Once Asra starts the words pour out of him, like those of a child seeking reassurance from a parent.  “There’s an entity in the forest. And Lucio’s ghost is haunting the palace. And the plague beetles. I saw them.  I don’t know.”

The Magician regards us in silence, then with a flick of his wrist bends reality around him.  The light behind him settles itself into a tent. He throws back the entrance flap and enters gesturing for us to follow him.

I follow Asra into the dark interior, still clutching at a hand that doesn’t feel quite there.  Familiar shapes resolve around me, a rickety table covered by a fringed shawl, mismatched chairs, and the glow of magically lit lamps. It's the backroom of our shop.  But it isn't. There are no homey scents of dried herbs and incense and when I run my fingers across the cloth spread over the table, I can't find the darned places where the shawl has been mended in the past.

I settle uneasily into one of the chairs, forming a triangle around the table with the Magician and Asra.  The Magician shuffles a deck of cards.

“An entity in the forest.  Vague even for you, Asra? What is this entity?”

“I don’t know.  What glimpses we got don’t make any sense.”

“Certainly you know better than to trust appearances.  It is a small matter to look like something else.” He offers Asra the deck to cut, then deals three cards on the table.  “Turn them, Dema. What do you see?”

I hesitate, then Asra touches my arm in reassurance, and I flip cards over.  The Seven of Swords and the Five of Swords flank Death Reversed. “What should be natural - more natural than anything - perverted.”  The words come to me, almost automatically, but there meaning isn’t immediately clear. “Power that was stolen, both by trickery and by force.”

The Magician traces around the edge of Death with a single sharply pointed finger.  “That’s the nature of your entity.” He gathers the cards back up and reshuffles the deck.  Asra doesn’t seem surprised by the answer that isn’t quite one. But it seems to match the nature of this place well enough.

“What about Lucio?”

“What about him?”  The Magician places two cards in front of Asra and nods for him to turn them.  Asra flips them over without waiting. The Knight of Swords, the card that I had seen recently for both Lucio and Asra.  Recklessness. Followed by the Chariot, reversed. The Magician raises his eyebrows and just barely shakes his head at Asra.  “Things got a bit out of control, didn’t they, my young one?”

Asra stares at the cards in front of him.  His reply is a shaky gasp. “Yes.”

The Magician leaves the two cards face up in front of Asra and deals from the deck into a three by three spread in the center of the table.  “There are multiple forces in play.” He turns the left and right columns. The Magician, the High Priestess, the Hermit, the Hierophant, the Hanged Man, and the Devil.  With the exception of the Devil, all are reversed from where I’m sitting. “And in the center of them -” He turns the middle card and lays it horizontally across the others.  The Fool, neither reversed nor upright. “Someone who is beginning to come into their own power. Yet.” He pauses and flips over the two cards above and below. The Two of Swords, reversed and the Eight of Swords.  Both blindfolded. One trying to balance two swords in her hands, and the other bound within a ring of swords. The Magician looks to me without saying anything further. If the cards before refer to Asra, or Lucio, or both, these are my cards.  A hollow feeling grows in my stomach, and my ears start ringing as I reach for the Fool in the center. Asra grabs my hand, stopping me before I can touch it.

The Magician chuckles and collects his deck once more.  “We major Arcana are archetypes, manifestations of ancient powers.  You don't know me well, Dema, but we talk often enough. As you do with my siblings.  And the more you speak with us, the more familiar you’ll become. You'll know me, or one of the others, from an imposter in our place.”

What does he mean?

“I wonder, Dema, how well do you know your master?”

The mock up of the back room twists and folds on itself; for an awful moment, I lose all sense of direction.  There's no up or down, right or left, just gut churning motion. Then the room settles back into place. For a moment, I think my vision may have doubled from the vertigo, but no, the Magician no longer appears as a fox, but instead appears as Asra.

“So, little apprentice, who is who?”  The room shifts around me again before I can isolate the speaker.  Asra would never call me that.

When the room stops moving again, I step toward the two figures, reaching out with both my hands and my own magic, and hoping that neither one decides to turn into an actual fox and bite me.  Their auras, shades of violet both, blur together one into the other but remain subtly different. They're standing close enough that I can reach out and touch their cheeks simultaneously. For a second both lean into my hand, before the one on the left tilts his head back, as if he's not sure he's entitled the affection he so clearly wants.  Asra.

I pull my hand away from the Magician and move to stand directly in front of Asra, cupping his face in my hands.  He gives me a slight smile, but his eyes are sad. I turn my attention back to the auras. My first impression had not been accurate.  They weren't blurring. Asra's aura, ever so slightly warmer in tone, was being slowly replaced by the darker violet of the Magician.

I slide my hands to Asra's shoulders and clutch him against me.  Slowly he returns the embrace, wrapping his arms around my back. I turn my face to the Magician - once again a fox.  Rage builds inside me, tightening in my chest and throat. I curl my upper lip into a snarl. “You can't have him.”

“So you figured it out.”  The Magician smiles, but this time there is no kindness, just a menacing craftiness.  “When any two beings become familiar enough the line between them can seem to disappear.  To connect with one of the Arcana on a personal level can awaken a wellspring of power. But if the connection is too deep you run the risk of losing your individuality.  Becoming your archetype.”

I tighten my arms around Asra.  Despite the apparate warmth that pervades this facsimile of our home, he’s shivering.  Maybe the heat in the air is being pulled from Asra as the line between him and the Magician dissolves.  I don't care what power Asra could gain or why he thinks he needs it; I'm not losing him.

The Magician’s gaze shifts to Asra and his expression changes again into something like pity.  “You were warned, Asra.” He tilts his head looking closely at each of us and rubs his chin. “Fascinating.  I do like you, little one. Here’s part of what you came for: Lucio tried to become one of the Arcana and failed.”

“Lucio tried to become . . .  How?”

“Why don't you ask him yourself?”  The Magician raises one black claw and with a flick of his wrist sets the room spinning again.

When the motion stops, Asra and I are back beside the undulating lake that anchors his gateway.  My head is tucked between his shoulder and his chin, arms still tight around him. He rubs my shoulders. “Hey, it's okay, Dema, you can let go.”

“No, if I let you go, you'll go away again, and this time, you won't come back and you'll become that thing.  And I'll be alone again. I'll have lost you.” I'm aware that I'm probably not making much sense, but once the half coherent stream of words is leaving my mouth, I can't stop it.  “Everytime you leave, I don't know when or if you'll be back, or if you've finally decided that you're done with me.”

“Dema.”  His hand pushes my hair back from my face.  “I'll never abandon you. Not again.” His voice breaks and we stand in silence for a moment, wrapped in each other's arms.  “I love you too much to do that. Even if you don’t -”

“I do love you.”  I pull far enough away from him to look up at his face.  “I don't want to lose you. I want to trust you.”

“Dema-”

“And every moment in that - that other place - there was less and less of you and more of him.  Like he was feeding off of you - gnawing away at your being.”

Asra sinks down heavily, like his knees have given out beneath him.  He pulls me down with him and into his lap. Wordlessly, he presses my head to his chest, over his heart and holds me there.  His breath shakes and while I can hear his heart beating strongly, there's a stutter in the cadence, as if it's running on a poorly healed limb.

“Asra, something isn't right.”

“No.”  He lifts my face to him.  His eyes are wide with wonder, and pain, and something else.  “But I have you, so it's okay.”

I lean in to kiss him, pushing him back so that he's laying on the ground.  There's desperation in his kiss, and I'm not on top for long before we've changed places and his hands and mouth, gentle but insistent, are running over every part of my body, caressing each of my fingers and even my toes individually, as if to make sure that I am all there.  I wonder at how long he must have wanted this and I almost feel guilty about the past three years of casual friendly affection and snuggling. Almost, but not quite, because that's kept me together more than once when it's felt like my brain is spinning out of control.

He stops, almost abruptly, as though, he only wanted to touch me and check that I was all there.  He kisses my mouth and strokes my cheek. “We'll finish this later, beloved.”

“Is that a promise?”

He pushed aside my blouse and kisses the spot over my heart.  “It is.” He lingers there, cheek pressed to my skin, before disentangling himself from me with a sigh and rolling over onto his back.  “We’ve got a lot to do. If we can stop the red plague from returning, or if Ilya can actually find a cure -” He roles forward and up to his feet, then leans back over to offer me a hand.  I take it, and he pulls me up, presses a quick kiss to my lips, then steps back into the water.

* * *

I wake up sprawled on my side, facing Asra with one hand still clasped in his.  I roll over on my back. Julian, asleep, is one the other side of me, nearby, but not quite touching.  Reaching out, I take one of his hands without letting go of Asra and lay still, looking up at the stars and planets spinning above me.  Part of me remembers that there is something not right with the world, but I’m able - for once - to shut that part down, and simply be content.

“Dema,” Asra’s voice is a low whisper.  I turn my face to him. “You and Julian should head back to the palace and decide how you’re going to find that dungeon.  I’m going to stay with Muriel tonight. And I’ll join you tomorrow. I have an idea. I’ll just need to get Nadi to go along with it.”

I nod in agreement.  He pushes himself to his knees, then picks my hand back up, bringing my wrist to his mouth and presses the lightest of kisses to the inside of it.  Somehow that touch is more intimate than a dozen kisses to my mouth could have been.  

“Just be careful, my love.  If your memories start coming back, I don’t know what will happen.”

“I’m not as fragile as you think I am.  And I’m not afraid.”

“I _am_ afraid.”  He looks off into the distance caught in some memory that I both do and do not want to know about.  “Wake Ilya. Muriel and I will get you back to the main road to the palace. And, Dema -” He returns his gaze to me. “Not that you need my permission, but it's okay to love two people at once.  You loved him. Deeply. I hope you both remember, and I swear, I won’t take that from you.” He kisses my fingers again, then stands and walks to where Muriel is curled on his side next to Inanna.

I roll back over and push myself up, stretching my back and arms.  Leaning over Julian, I trace the lines of his face and lightly kiss each of his eyelids, still a little amazed at having access to both.  “Hey, Julian, you shouldn’t sleep outside. You’ll get sick.” His eyes flutter, then he wakes with a start.  

“Oh, you’re back.”  With a yawn, he pushes himself up on his elbows.  “Did you learn anything?”

“Yes. I’ll fill you in on the way back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	24. Remembering, Remember Light, Thinking of Nothing and the Shooting Stars - NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for this chapter: panic attacks, arguably not the best tactics for dealing with said panic attack, although, honestly, I can think of much worse
> 
> Chapter title from [P.J. Harvey, "The Sky Lit Up"](https://youtu.be/xzpInZzNP30)

Asra and Muriel are both consumed by their own thoughts as they lead us through the forest and back to the city.  Inanna does most of the leading, to be honest. I talk quietly with Julian, trying to explain things I only half understood: Asra’s gate, the here but not quite aspects of the Magician’s realm, that a person could somehow connect to a supernatural being, taking power and losing themselves in the process, and maybe that’s what Lucio tried to do, in order to somehow cheat Death, and did any of that make any sense?  Not really. Yeah, me too.  

Before we part ways at the edge of the forest, Asra walks up to Julian, grabs him by the shoulders and jerks him down to eye level.  “I swear, Ilya, if you let anything harm her again, I will personally tie the noose around your neck.” He runs a hand through Julian’s hair, mitigating some of the harshness of the statement, then turns on his heel and walks off with Muriel.

Julian looks equal parts baffled and turned on.  He's watching Asra walk away, cheeks red and biting his bottom lip, fully entranced by his retreating figure.

I touch the back of his hand.  “So, is the combination of Asra and ropes something I should keep in mind?”

“Huh, yes - wait, umm, I mean.”

I laugh and wrap my arms around him.  “As long as we don't actually hang you, sugar.”  I can't reach his face or even quite his neck, so I settle for kissing his chest where his shirt is undone.  I nip at the skin once and step back, knowing full well he'd prefer that I worry it a bit more with my teeth.  “Umm, Julian would it bother you if Asra and I . . .?” I’m suddenly unable to decide how to phrase the question I need to ask and surprised with myself. 

“You are also with Asra?”  He laughs. “I thought that was already a given.  There's only one bed at your place, you know.” He picks me up and holds me so that our eyes are on the same level.  Instinctively, I wrap my arms around his shoulders, even through his grip under my thighs is firm. “My life is a bit of a mess right now, if you haven't noticed, and you are the one bright spot in it.  Whatever comes with you is worth it.” He kisses me on the tip of my nose. “And, frankly, my dear, whatever weirdness this scenario might bring absolutely pales in comparison to everything else happening right now.”  A look of concern passes across his face. “What did he mean by again? I can't think of anything I wouldn't do to keep you safe. I'd cut a deal with the Dev -"

"Shh."  I press my fingers against his mouth.  "Don't say that." If the Devil was - like the Magician - a person, and if he was involved with the potential of the plane returning, and Lucio's ghost, and whatever it was we'd seen in the forest, as the Magician's dealing of the cards seemed to indicate, it only boded ill to invoke him.  "It's Asra. I'm not convinced he knows what he means half the time."

"Heh."  Julian smiles and sets me back down on the ground.  "Yeah, never figured out which of us was the idiot when he said something that made no sense to me."

Before we reach the lemonstone gate, it’s raining again in earnest.  Julian pulls me close to him as we walk quickly with his oversized coat tucked around me.  The wall is thick enough to provide some shelter in the space where the gate is cut in it. He leans over and kisses my cheek.  “I should go.”  

“No.”  If we're to begin searching the palace tomorrow, Julian will have to sneak in at some point.  Now seems as good of a time as in the morning. Besides, we should celebrate knowing that Julian is an innocent man, and there's a bottle of bourbon Nadia sent to my room waiting to be drunk.  “Stay with me. I can glamour you long enough to get to my rooms and the ward the doors." Something a little different this time, I'm tired of changing his hair color or making his height. I trace sigils in the air on either side of Julian.  “There.”

“Who did you make me look like?”

“No one and deserving of no attention whatsoever.  Except,” I reach up, grab his chin, and turn his face so that his gaze meets mine.  He hasn't put his eyepatch back on, and however odd the red sclera in one eye looks, I'm pleased to be looking into both his eyes.  “Maybe I'll give you a bit of attention. For the sake of pity.” Without breaking eye contact, I run my hand down his torso and palm his cock through the fabric of his pants.  He groans and presses himself against me. I smile, feeling free and wicked, at least for the rest of tonight. “Come on, honey. Anyone else who sees you will see no one at all.”

 

My guest room has been tidied and the bed made by the ever efficient palace staff.  There's a bowl of fresh fruit on the table, along with a pair of tumblers and the bottle of whiskey Nadia sent.  I still haven't figured out how she just now what her guests will enjoy, but she has once again divined my favorite and provided.  After I was the door and windows against entry, I pour generous amounts of liquor in the tumblers and hand one to Julian.

“To innocence.”  I knock my glass against his.  He drinks his as a shot, but I sip mine.  It's smooth and smoky -- and worthy of contemplation.  “Have more if you want.”  

Julian pours another two fingers and raises the glass again. “And to experience.” he drinks, shower this time, then recites,

“For I dance  
And drink & sing:  
Till some blind hand  
Shall brush my wing.”

I set down my glass, empty now.  “That's queer little rhyme.”

“It’s from a cycle titled _Songs of Innocence and Experience_.” He shrugs. “I suppose that's why it came to mind. Actually, the poet was comparing himself to a fly.”

“You're not a fly, Julian.  Your wings are those of a raven.”  I run my hand along his shoulders and arms.  

He leans over resting his head against mine. “You should get out of those clothes.  I mean, you're soaked to the bone.”

I laugh and pull his face down to where I can kiss him. “Sure. I'll just go freshen up.”  I shed my blouse as I walk across the room, giving Julian a view of my naked back, but quickly step into the small bathroom and close the door.  Let him anticipate the rest.

The shower does fine. The hot water sluicing over me chases away the chill of walking in the rain.  I enjoy it for longer than I might normally, hoping that Julian will concoct some awkward excuse to barge in and join me.  He doesn't. I twist the handles that close the water valves and quickly dry off and slip into one of the fine, gauzy robes that the palace stocks for guests.  While I had been wishing for the past week or so to have something with a bit more substance, I'm looking forward to Julian's response.

I glance over at the fireplace and freeze.  Julian is sprawled in the floor, in some sort of pose, but I barely see him for the roaring flames in the grate behind him.  It wasn't lit when we came in. He must have found the kindling and wood that the staff kept stacked and waiting beside the grate. A drone begins in my ears and the faintness I felt from seeing the fire built back at Muriel's returns.

“Dema?” Julian's voice sounds far away.  “What's wrong? You're as pale as ghost.” 

Underneath the ringing in my ears and the roaring of the flames, I can hear the sound of a piece of furniture being pushed aside.  As a ghost? A ghost is dead, and I'm . . . the fire . . . I can't . . . Gathering as much of my magic as I can, I jerk the air away from the flames, extinguishing them.

As the fire goes out, my knees give way, and I stagger forward.  Julian catches me before I hit the floor, lifting and clutching me to his chest.  After a moment, I wrap my arms around his shoulders as tightly as I can.

“What is it?”

“Fire. I can't remember, but . . .”  The ringing in my ears is beginning to subside, but my heart still pounds in my chest.  I start working through an exercise meant to be calming. Five things I see: the wall hangings - changed to a geometric design in turquoise and silver after Nadia casually asked about my favorite colors, irises in a vase by the door - also my favorite, fluffy towel - dropped on the floor, wood floor - oak, fireplace - empty now.  Close my eyes. Moving on. Four things I hear... 

“Shh. You're safe. I've got you.”

Julian’s voice, my own heart - still pounding, rain knocking at the window, ears are still ringing - but not as badly.  Three things I touch: soft curls - I run one hand through Julian’s hair, my other hand is on his back - warm skin, and - I drop the hand that was in his hair back behind me - the blanket, wool, slightly, pleasantly scratchy on the bed.  Two things I smell: the metallic, cutting, ozone scent of a fire recently extinguished, and Julian, salt and citrus and whiskey and Julian. One thing I taste. Easy. I find his mouth, more whiskey and Julian.

I open my eyes again.  Julian is crouched next to the bed that I’m now sitting on, staring at me with worry and wonder both in his eyes.  I force a smile. “Hi.”

His hands go to my hips.  “Hi, yourself. Are you alright?”  I nod. I’m as alright as I probably ever will be at least.  This might explain why Asra and I have a salamander for the stove instead of keeping a large fireplace.  (Or it might just be because the salamander is adorable, especially when I feed him twigs of fruit wood for a treat.)  Julian’s hand at my neck and thumb tracing along my jaw bring me back to the present. “Do you want to talk about it?” I shake my head from side to side in an emphatic no.  If I start talking about it, I’ll spend the rest of the night counting from five to four to three to two to one, and I fear that despite the Countess’s impressive generosity, I will shortly run out of objects.  

“We’ve got to stop having moments like this.”  First whatever happened to me in Lucio’s chamber, and now this with the fire.  His hand is resting somewhat awkwardly against my neck. “Are you checking my pulse?”

“Umm, yes, it’s...quite a bit lower than it was a couple of minutes ago, actually.”

“Good to know all the meditation practice paid off.”  I put both my hand over his and lean forward, whispering in a fashion that I most desperately hope sounds conspiratorial.  Maybe Julian’s flair for drama can be a ramp down from too much drama. “I’m tough stuff. I have survived much more than a mere panic attack.”

“I believe you.”  He glances down at where I have his hand pressed over my heart. “You’re colder than you were.  There’s not really much to this robe.”

“Well, Doctor, I guess you’ll just have to find someway to get me warmed up.”  I slide his hand a little lower.

“Are you, uh, sure that’s a good idea?  I mean...”

I loop one foot behind him and slide it along his bare back.  “Good idea? Don’t know. What I want right now? Yes.” I want to just be in my body, instead of my pounding, fickle head.  Sex tends to accomplish that purpose.

“Well, um, if that’s what you want.”  He arches his eyebrows and his lips curl up in a smile.  I slide my other leg behind his back and pull him closer to me, simultaneously sliding his free hand further down my chest.  Short of an engraved invitation to fuck me, I’m not sure how I can make myself clearer.  

“How about what you want, Julian?” I let go of his hand and lean back on my elbows.  “Boss me around for a bit.”

“Hmm.”  He stands and looks me overly contemplatively.  I start to strike a pose, then suddenly feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, and look off to the side. “Okay, stand up.”  He pushes my feet shoulder width apart with his foot. He’s still wearing his absurd boots, but then, they can’t be easy to get out of. “Lose the robe.”  Happy to have something to do, I comply, unknotting the tie from around my waist and nudging the robe off my shoulder and then the other. Julian grabs the blanket from the bed behind me and drapes it over my shoulders. “That’s one thing I want - you not freezing to death.” 

Freezing to death is not high on my list of fears.  Actually, I've heard that it's a relatively good way to go, at least after the cold has you numbed through.  “Not precisely what I had in mind.”

“Did I say I was done?” 

I snap my eyes back to his.  “No. No, you did not.”

He picks up my left hand, bends over to kiss my fingertips, then touches them to my breast, dragging them around the edge of the aureole.  “Keep that up.” He steps behind me, then wraps an arm around me to grab my other breast, kneading it, before trailing his hand across my torso, pausing to trace circles over my hipbone.  I moan and slump back against him only to be pushed back upright with his free hand. “Did I tell you to do that?” I shake my head from side to side. “Aloud.”

“No.”

“Good girl. Nothing without my permission. Close your eyes.”  He’s oddly quiet, the strangeness adding to the anticipation I feel building low in my stomach.  He takes my free hand in his and guides it between my legs, dragging my fingers lightly over my outer lips.  I start to slip a finger deeper between them, but he somehow catches me, pulls my hand back, and slaps my knuckles.  Lightly, maybe too lightly. “Not yet, Dema. Some things should be savored.” His breath is warm against my throat he must be leaning in close to my ear to whisper.  “Try again.”    

This time, I trail my fingertips lightly over the outer folds of my sex.  The limited pressure, the promise of more to come, builds my excitement. Julian’s breath is still warm against my neck.  He kisses the top of my shoulder gentler, then - when I mewl with pleasure - roughly, scraping his teeth over the skin. The mewl becomes a louder moan.

“Careful, dear. The walls in this palace are thinner than you would expect.”

“I... oh...” I stifle a louder cry as he nips my earlobe. “I can fix that.”

“Can you now?”

“It’s a simple - ah -”  He pushes my hand away from my breast and catches my nipple between two of his long fingers.  “Adjustment to the warding spell I did earlier.”

“Warding spell - right.  More magicky things. Do it.”

“I need my hands for a moment.  And my eyes open. Please.”

“Very well.”  His breathe and hands withdraw from my body.  I raise my hands in front of me and quickly sketch the sigils for silence, before pushing them to the walls to join the other wards.  They glow for a moment before sinking into the wall. I drop my hands to my sides and close my eyes.

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Aren’t you a clever one.  Turn around. Open your eyes if you want.”  He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, cheeks flushed and eyelids heavy with lust. He reaches out, rearranges the blanket draped around my shoulders, and pushes my hair back from my face.  Tracing his knuckles down the side of my face, he pulls away from me, leaning back on the bed, weight resting on his elbows. “And a pretty one as well. Hands as they were.”

I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and return my hands to my breast and my sex.  It’s harder than I expected to look at him; I drop my eyes. I can hear his weight shifting on the bed, and then he wraps his hand around the one I have between my legs, pressing my fingers between my folds, his own fingertips shadowing behind them.  Moisture is collecting at my entrance and the wetness drags along with my fingers, closer to spot that I desperately want to touch.

“You feel amazing.  Perfect.”

“I’m not perfect.”

Julian draws my hand away, brings it to his mouth and slowly licks my fingers.  All the blood in my body is rushing toward my cheeks or between my legs. “You’re perfect.”

He pulls me into the bed beside to him, rearranging the pillows to prop me up before placing his hands of my knees and pushing them apart.  Feeling overexposed, I glance to the side, breaking eye contact. “Show me how you touch yourself.” His hand trails down the inside of my left thigh.  “Dema, look at me.”

The only way out is forward. I let my right leg fall over the edge of the bed, exposing myself more of that's even possible, and bring my eyes back to Julian's as I slide a hand back between my legs, parting my labia to find and first circle my clit, before settling a finger on either side of it and stroking back and forth.  I moan, as much from the heat in his gaze as sensations building and tightening in my core.

Julian's hands move from my thigh and my knee to my hips. He groans and leans over me, the dynamic shifting even before he says anything. “I can't keep this up. Can I, may I, please?” 

“Please what?” 

“Taste you.”

“Go ahead.” I pull back my fingers and he drops his head, bringing his mouth to my pussy, swiping and stroking with his tongue, and I'm so glad I added the silencing spell to the wards. I twist my hands in his hair pulling it this way and that, and my right leg, toes curling, finds its way back into bed, wrapping around his back, hips rolling against his mouth.

“Julian, stop.” I pull his head back by his hair.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” I laugh. I feel like lightning is running through me, waking every never in just the way it wants to be. “God, no.” I sit up and kiss his mouth, biting and pulling at his bottom lip while working a hand between his legs. His cock, fully hard, is still trapped in his pants - poor thing. “I just want a turn.”

I work down his body from his lips, kissing, biting, sucking and pinching as I go, stopping and spending time at a spot if he whined just so and seems to particularly like it.  He's touching me the entire time, strong hands kneading my back, sneaking between my things to find sensitive spots there, sliding to my front to toy with my breasts, simply tangling themselves in my hair. 

I reach his belt and find myself stymied. It's some unreasonably elaborate thing, a knotted sash over a traditional buckled number.  Needing a better angle, I climb off the bed and kneel between his legs, fussing with the knot.  

“Do you want some help there?”

“Dammit, I am resolved.”

He chuckles and strokes my hair. “I admire your tenacity.” 

I cackle in triumph when I finally get the knot undone.  The belt is no trouble, a surprisingly basic - for Julian, at any rate - buckle and then I'm free to undo his fly and free his cock.  I run my hand from navel to groin and press my lips against the base of him. He makes the most wonderful noise as I drag my tongue along the underside and around the tip, I repeat the action eliciting a moan that might have been an attempt at my name.

I push his pants down a bit farther and slap his flank. “Hips up, darling.” I drag my nails down the outside of his thighs, leaving red welts that almost instantly disappear, and dragging his pants along with them.  Just above his knees, I hit a new obstacle. He still has on his boots. “Godammit!”

“What?  Oh, shit.  Let me help you with those.”

He had better.  There are something like sixteen clasps going down the side of each one. As I start on the right boot, a light weight drops around my shoulders.  The blanket again. I look up.

“You're still worried I'm cold, aren't you?”

He nods and brushed his thumb along my cheek.  I lean back in and kiss the top of one exposed thigh; no teeth this time, I'm only feeling tenderness.  “I think I love you.” Julian's hands trembles where it's resting against my neck. I look up, his face looks thunderstruck. “Also, I'm buying you a pair of sensible boots.” 

I duck down and go back to work undoing the clasps.  Julian leans over, undoing the fastenings on his other leg, much more efficiently than I am, but then he's had practice.  I peel the boots off his legs and finally can get his pants off. He's glorious naked, all long lines and wiry muscle.

Reaching down, he takes my arms and pulls me up and toward him.  I climb into his lap, my legs folded and straddling him, the extra bit of height putting me almost at eye level.  He's made sure the blanket remains covering my back and it is warmer in the snug little cocoon it creates with his body.

“Say it again.”

“What?”  I smile, teasing him. “That I'm buying you some sensible shoes.”

“No.”

I press my forehead to his, breathing in the scent of him and whisper softly, “I think I love you, Julian Devorak.”  Then, not knowing where or when I learned how to say I love you in Nevivon’s native language, but knowing, just knowing that I had it right.  “ _Ilya, ya tebya liubliu_.”                                                                                        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! I always welcome feedback and questions here or on Tumblr. I'm once again substituting in my half remembered and never that great Russian for Nevivon. The poetry snippet is from William Blake.
> 
> And, if for some reason, you like my music (usually dated) choices, there's a [ Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6KYGCtanlUMyn2u1Ow4vTZ?si=k5eJuvhzR3ukwDuHCqaWPQ).


	25. Plus, My Only Natural Talent's Wasted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from The Dresden Dolls, "My Alcoholic Friends"

Nadia, Countess of Vesuvia and Seventh Princess of Prakra, buries her face in her hands.  She doesn't want to do this; of course she does not want to; she is not a cruel woman, but she is willing to do what has to be done.  Placing the Consul under house arrest and cutting his access to alcohol and drugs is something she should have done long ago, but the decision was a hard one.  He's a grown man and a proud one, but . . .

He would be the most effective member of the court, if he could make it more than two hours without a glass of wine.  Intelligent. Understands the city at a level that she will never be able to match. Good mind for details. And human, while she is listing his positive attributes.  But he appears to have stopped trying to do anything other than rolling his eyes at the others and delivering irritated commentary some time ago.

This is what her mother would do.  She's not sure if she's comforted or concerned by that fact.  Mother would also explain the situation in person. No intermediaries for something this disagreeable.  One should directly face unpleasantness when doling it out.

A small team of guards, senior men who were respected for their maturity and discretion, had already assembled outside her study.  They hadn’t been briefed - another attempt to avoid rumors spreading. She hoped to pass around the story that the Consul was ill. True enough in it's own way.

They follow her to the Consul's study, and wait behind as she enters without permission.  Not that she needs permission. She is the Countess after all.

It feels strange to face him for the first time as Countess.  Really her first time to approach anyone with her full level of authority.  It is only within the last few weeks that she has felt that she’s truly regained her bearings since waking with Portia sitting beside her bed and remembering nothing beyond arriving in her new husband’s city and walking across the bridge to the palace.  And it’s only for the past few days, since she found those journals, that she felt prepared to begin acting in accordance with her title.

Folly to have allowed herself to trust in the reports of the majority of her courtiers for so long, even without the notes from the journals detailing their actions and inactions.  She wishes she had found the leather bound books before setting a price on Devorak’s head and scheduling a renewal of the Masquerade. She’s not at all convinced of the reports she’s been given of the man now.  Nor of the descriptions of the meaning of the festival for the city. Valerius is the only one who hadn’t deliberately mislead her, from protesting that the Masquerade was a waste of resources they didn’t have, to scoffing at the idea that Devorak was worth recapturing, even if the Consul had been the one to arrest him in the first place.  If only he had the wherewithal to be a bit more insistent in his protests.  

She looks across the room at the Consul, bent over the papers on his desk, a bottle of wine and a glass at hand, and clears her throat.  At least he appears to be working - to the point of wearing reading glasses, and he probably is, even if his effectiveness isn’t what she wishes it would be.  While she never had problems being forthright in the face of adversary, well, other than her mother and her sisters, actually forcing her will onto someone is new.

"Your Excellency?"  Val looks up from the quarterly reports: grain production in the hinterlands was up again this year - some much welcome positive news.  There’d be little enough cash flow from that, but the city’s stockpile of grain had been depleted keeping starvation from adding to the death toll during the plague.  To Volta’s credit she was just as horrified by the idea of someone else going hungry as she was by an empty plate facing her, and found the capacity to organize subsidies and distributions.  Very few people in the city had been eating well by the time the plague ended, but at least they had bread.  

But he hasn't been expecting the Countess and while he isn't delighted to be caught with a bottle of wine that is three quarters empty at mid morning, his vanity was taking more of a hit from the reading glasses he's wearing.  She already knew about the drinking.

"Consul.  Enjoying the morning, I see."  She pauses.  _ What would mother do? _   Hrm.  Leave him the impression of a choice he doesn't have.  "I am worried about you." And have been quite a while.  Has she ever told him that? Her journals suggestion that her impression of him had always been mixed: respect for his dedication to the city and, yes, even his protectiveness of Lucio, and resentment from the look he gave her when she disembarked from her ship.  She had only remembered that resentment, clouding her judgment of him.

"You are?"  He stands up from his desk and moves to a section of the room where the furniture has been arranged for comfortable conversation, gesturing for Nadia to choose the seat she prefers.

She remains standing, not willing to ruin the power imbalance of standing an inch or two taller than him for the sake of her own comfort.  "I have made a decision about your position at my court, and I doubt you will be glad to hear it." She adjusts her posture, wanting every inch granted by nature and the heels of her shoes.

"Oh."  This is . . . not likely to be good.  He's been expecting Nadia to clean house for sometime now, and while he hardly merited a promotion, he hadn't thought it would be his head on the chopping block.  He straightens his robe.  _ If I’m about to live my own downfall, it will be with dignity.  Some, at least. _

She waits for the space of a long breath, dramatic effect, and says these carefully chosen words first, hoping they sound as cast in iron out loud as they do in her head.  "Valerius, you will be placed under house arrest for the time being. It is more than overdue."

"Nadia -”  No audience, so no need to maintain a strict formality.  Perhaps that was kindness on her part. And about time seemed to mean here, not the exile back to his estates that was the traditional way to dismiss someone out of favor, but without execution. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Additionally, for that time, you will abstain from alcohol and all those little herbs my late husband and you enjoyed so much for relaxation."  It feels oddly liberating to finally order that, at least to one of them.

That statement is not at all what he expected.  Drinking oneself to death is a time honored tradition for those removed from the court.  Practically a requirement. That and composing overly self important philosophical treatises.  "And exactly how long do you plan to have me locked up?"

"Until you sober up, Consul.  I will not continue watching a competent man slowly killing himself.”  Her red eyes tighten. “If you prefer to die, tell me now. I will make it quick."

That isn't much in the way of options: death or sobriety.   He'd rather have cake, and he doesn’t have a particular sweet tooth.  Of course, she didn't say how long he had to stay sober, just that he had to get sober.  Val is intelligent enough to recognize his own bullshit logic. And it is indeed bullshit.

"Not much of a choice, Nadia."  He sighs and wishes he hadn't left the mostly empty bottle on his desk.  A last drink would be nice. Those were always particularly piquant. He knows that just as much as he knows that they never really are the last drink.  Not for him. "Just don't make me deal with your red haired minion, please."

"And why would I give up the only member of my staff I can trust?”  Her response is automatic, more honest than she had intended. “You will be under surveillance though, and you will see more of me from now on.  It is time to properly pick up the reigns, and whip some things in order before anyone notices, and for that -" For a moment, her blood-red lips press together into a tight line.  "I need your help."

He almost fails to process the last of what she said, too distracted by the prospect of being supervised like some callow youth.  “You need my help?" He is nothing short of incredulous at that statement. Not that he doesn't believe it. She needs his help. Or the help of someone who knows the sort of things he does, but he hardly expected her to ever admit it. 

"Do you think I would mind watching you continue to make a fool out of yourself, still pining after a dead man and crying about him in your drunken stupor, if I did not?  Do you really think you wouldn't just follow your predecessor’s route, if you had no value?"

Slowly he understands why Lucio was so intent on angering her any time he was given half a chance.  She's magnificent. He can't stop himself from piling on. Lucio would be so proud of him, precious little as that was worth.  "Why Countess, I didn't realize that you cared."

The look she gives him makes him briefly feel lower than dirt under the soles of her shoes.  Enough of the people he knows would pay good money for that experience. Maybe he should think about his acquaintances once in a while, but then . . .

Perhaps this is a side he'd rather keep to himself.  At least for the time being. If she is going to lock him up and watch him decompensate into mewling mess, at least he should allow himself the perverse pleasure of feeling special under her heel.  "Are you at least going to let me stay in my own house?" 

"After we freed it from any things that give you options  _ I _ might regret later, it should be possible."  

Small mercies, at least he'll have the comfort of a familiar place and his own staff.  And there's not much in the town house that he objects strongly to having searched . . . 

Except for that one cabinet.  He'd rather not have anyone going through that one cabinet.  Certainly not any random guards. Even the grizzled graybeards he can just see outside the door, who probably know better than to talk, will have trouble not starting rumors when they're in their cups.  Controlling one's tongue when drunk is a rare enough talent. He should know.

"You look like there is something you want to add, Consul."  Hands folded behind her back, she walks over to the window. The tapping of her heels sounds like shots fired, and he understands the gesture.   _ Don't dare to lie into my face, Val. _

"Will you be supervising?  If you're set on taking any and all substances from me, I think I'd rather you search a couple places . . . privately."  He rather they not be searched at all, but even if he hands over his stash of resins and powders and herbs and bottles, he doubts that she would believe for an instant that he’s given her everything.  To be fair, it wouldn't be. He knows himself well enough.

"I can offer you room and board at the palace, if that is easier for you.  Maybe a change of the environment wouldn't be too bad, and it would make my way shorter."

Another impossible choice.  He definitely  _ does not _ want a change of scenery.  This is going to be bad enough as it is without any of the palace staff as witnesses.  Besides, if Nadia is truly going to put him through this hell, he likes the idea of inconveniencing her to some degree or another.  "No, no, I'd rather be at home."

"Very well then."

It dawned on him how different she is from back in the day when she way still at  _ his _ side.  She had been mean then, a pretentious little princess bitch, beautiful like the sunset, and she had despised the Consul from the minute they met, instantly aware of the way he looked at Lucio, recognizing that he cared not a single iota for her presence in the city.  In  _ his _ city.

That woman across the room from him was . . . still nobody who  _ loved _ him, but her disapproval seemed more because he was failing at his job than anything else.  She isn't so jealous or so sure that she has all the answers and didn't need any assistance from anyone.  Still pretentious. She hadn't been the spitting image of sobriety herself. Not before, and now wasn't much better.  He does still review the palace expenses and no small amount is spent on the over priced white wine she prefers. At least, he sources his alcohol from his own estate instead of adding it to the budget.

"We can't go on like this."  More like a statement to the city in front of the window than to him, and yet so oddly fitting.  Even under her layers of makeup she’s so very beautiful, and very tired.

"No, we can't."  He knows that well.  The city's finances had improved somewhat in the past three years, but not enough.  Not enough to cover the repairs that needed to happen, to drain the neighbors that have been flooded, construct a new aqueduct.  And figuring out how to completely turn this economic disaster around needed a clearer head than he had managed in years. A clear head and a clear court.  Nadia could probably get rid of the others, but not without some support.  

But he is not at all convinced that  _ this _ is necessary.  He could just cut back, get his head on straight, especially if he had a  _ reason. _   Some hope that things would truly improve and that he wasn’t just wasting his time on farfetched daydreams.  But Nadia has never been one to argue with. Not if she’s made up her mind. He doubts that three years of dreaming would have changed that.

"I . . .  _ we _ will have more properly manage the city’s affairs.  After the Masquerade. And . . . what did Dema tell you?"  Still not looking at him, perhaps to make answering easier on his part.

"About what?  Lucio? That you have a ghost on your hands and two attention starved dogs to deal with?"  He believes the little witch about the ghost now. How could he not? Not even if he wants to convince himself that all of it was an opium dream.

"I fear he is about to do something  _ stupid _ , and . . . I know about him and  _ you _ .  No memories, not yet, but old diaries.  You  _ loved _ him, didn't you?  Back then, I didn't quite understand it.  Go and drink the rest of that bottle, Valerius.  Neither this talk, nor that last glass you’re about to imbibe will ever have happened."

He returns to his desk and picks up the bottle with relief, drinking from it without concern for a glass.  "I think you hated me for it at first. Perhaps not so much later." He tries to remember the things that Lucio's ghost had said to him, but most of that was lost in the opium haze.  "Lucio was very good at doing stupid things. I cannot imagine he learned many lessons from dying."

"Dema reported that he said he wouldn't be in that form for long."

Ah, yes, whatever form that that been.  The one Val hadn't wanted to get a good look of, lest it spoil the touch he had craved for the past three years.  "Honestly, Nadia, that wasn't a topic I discussed with him."

She’s quiet, considering the statement then decides to take it at face value.  "You understand I need to know whose side you're ultimately on, Consul? And that I'd prefer it to be Vesuvia's?  In the end, the city is what counts, not either of us. We're interchangeable."

Truly we are that.  Poison, a well placed knife, and mercenary becomes count - son replaces father.  "My family has served Vesuvia for generations." He knows that isn't an answer to her question.  Not really. "Do you want honesty?"

"Please." She nods.

"You or Lucio?  I don't know. That's the truth of it."

Again, a nod, one that could verify a death sentence.  "You know that the  _ wise _ thing to do would be to lock you up until this is over, or to make sure you at least won't be on  _ his _ side, whatever that may include."  Her voice is as even as her face, but he can't get rid of the feeling something below her surface is bubbling, boiling, and her earlier offer of a fast death was not just for show.

"That probably would be the wisest course of action."  He takes another drink, straight from the bottle again.  "Have you considered though that at least you know how my loyalties are divided?  Can you say that about the rest of your court?”

"I'm not blind, Valerius, but I lack options.  I very much lack options. Was musing if Prakra might be one, but . . ."  She leans against the cool glass and closes her eyes.

"So you'd rather return to being just the youngest daughter of the Empire?"

"It's a price I am willing to pay if there is no other way to right the wrongs that have been done to this city."  Her manicured nails dig into her palms. "I just need to make sure I tried everything else."

"I don't intend to harm the city, Nadia.  But if you want honesty from me, I would not quite know how to feel if Lucio has found some way to defeat death itself."  Yet another drink, this one finishes the bottle, and unless Nadia changes her mind, may be his last for quite some time. He pauses to try to allow for an extra moment of appreciation, but there are too many other things on his mind.  "I could try to speak with him again. But truly, nothing you would be interested in was said between us." And thankfully those sketches were still rolled up in the back of one of his desk drawers. One that locked. And presumably, if Nadia intended for his home to be his prison, she wouldn't feel the need to thoroughly ransack his desk.

"I thank you, Consul.  I will take that into consideration when I make my decisions, and -"  She hesitates.  _ No.  It needs to be said.  Something kind in all this honesty.  _  "By now, I am glad he had you at his side.  Someone to be himself with. I could never have been that for him."

Val stops short and sets the bottle down on his desk harder than he intended.  The last statement was not something he expected to her from her - no, not at all.  It's generous to him  _ and to Lucio _ , and certainly, Nadia had shown precious little generosity to either of them in the past.  "Did you -" He wants to ask if she ever cared for Lucio at all, but he's afraid of her answer, knowing as he so well does that Lucio cared greatly for her in the mercurial way he cared for anyone.  "Did you ever see him as anything other than a stepping stone to power?"

Her hands are still behind her back, bound by the chains of past mistakes she didn’t remember but for which she still had to answer.  "I  _ wanted _ to love him, it seems.  I really  _ tried _ .  It is so utterly strange to read your own memories like they were written by a stranger, and having no one to share them.  Too many decisions have been made that I can't easily step back from now." Her chest rises and falls with a deep, slow breath.  "I think I envied the two of you. There seemed to be an intimacy he and I never had, and I doubt I'd be able to allow that kind of defenselessness at all.  No matter if I was once young and foolish and wanted it."

Defenselessness.  Yes, Lucio had always been good at making it past people's defenses, metaphorical and literal both.  "He loved you. I was jealous of that, hated that I wasn't enough for him. But that was just how he was: nothing and no one ever would be enough.  I don't think it made his love for what he had any less." The last is more for himself than for her, but it's good to hear the words aloud, even if he himself speaks them.

"I'd . . .  I'd like you to tell me about how you remember him.  Have a wake with me, so we can properly say goodbye. Perhaps we can postpone the sobriety until after that."  A little twitch in the corners of her mouth almost becomes a smile. "This is just a woman asking a man, not more.  You may deny me."

Unexpected.  Quite unexpected.  There had been no one to mourn with Val, even with the most elaborate of funerals.  No one who truly missed him. Do you call it a funeral when there's no body and little grief?  Volta has tried to be kind, in her own little way as the sole member of the court with access to any emotions that might be called human, but there was little actual comfort to be had in her attempts to sooth him with delicacies.  The wine that went with them though . . .    

"Yes."  His answer is quiet, almost hesitant.  He fears the offer might dissipate if the speaks too loudly.

"I'd suggest this night, the hour before midnight, in his chambers.  Enough time to cancel anything scheduled for the morning." A little smirk.  She's realistic about the amount of Golden Goose a proper wake for Lucio requires.  "Do you find that agreeable?"

In his case, he needed to not just clear his schedule for the next morning but to get enough things in order that he could be absent for however long Nadia locked him up.  He doubted she had forgotten that ultimatum.  

"Agreeable, yes.  But you might find that you wake the dead rather more literally than you intend, Nadia."

"I intended to bring three glasses.  I highly doubt he will refuse to listen to what we have to say about the dearly departed.  Maybe share a new story too." She’s a beautiful sphinx, face as unreadable as always, but something like grim amusement in her tone.

Val wonders if it is possible for a ghost to die of shock.  They may well find out, especially if Nadia shares kind thoughts about him.  "Very well. Until tonight then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think Val had been forgotten? Nay, there are plans afoot for our pretentious patrician.


	26. Searching for the Truth Among the Lying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW: child death, suicide (background character), self-harm, dissociation, mania, depression**  
>  Non detailed summary available in the endnotes.  
> Chapter title from [George Harrison, “The Art of Dying”](https://youtu.be/HZBzDN_eIDA)

_ Five years ago. _

_... Are you still with me? _

 

The plague only grew worse after the harbor was closed down.   When the wind blew in from the ocean, black smoke choked the streets and everyone wrapped their faces in scarves and tried hard to not think about what it contained.  Once the city gates were closed off, resources went from scarce to non existent. I started rationing the herbs that I didn’t have growing in my garden, saving them for the applications of which I was the most confident.  Somehow Julian managed to keep his clinic reasonably well stocked and strong coffee in his mug, as well as mine. He grinned and shrugged when I asked him how, muttering something about “connections” before asking if I needed anything.

In spring, the palace issued an edict summoning any doctor who remained in the city was to report to research the plague and possible cures.  Julian cursed and ignored it, insisting that he didn't technically have a license, so he wasn't a doctor and the order didn't apply to him. Then a messenger showed up at the clinic bearing a message with the Count's personal seal.

"Fuck!"  Julian was only half dressed.  The courier pounding at the door just after dawn had woken us both.  He closed the door behind the messenger and scrubbed a hand through his hair.  "Bet money the asshole insisted that it be delivered at this time of day too, just out of spite."  

"What is it?"  I yawned as I lit the stove for coffee.

"Think I'm out of stalling tactics."  Julian sat down at the table and rubbed his eyes.  "Or maybe not. Maybe if I catch him in a good mood, he'll just let me out of it."

"What is it?"

"Fucking Montag."  He passed me the note.  It was heavy, expensive paper, bordered by gold foil, but the handwriting was sloppy and blotched with ink:   _ Jules, get your skinny ass here before I have to drag you myself.  This is an order, kid. _   Order was underlined three times, and the quill would have pierced any paper of normal thickness.

"The Count sent you a personal summons?"

Julian leaned over the table, head on his arms, and groaned with an extra dash of drama.   "Can we just go back to bed?"

"Jules?  Montag? Kid?"

"Yeah, uh, bit of a story there.  Didn't realize he knew I was here."

"You know the Count?"

"I knew a mercenary commander who somehow became the Count of Vesuvia.  Misspent youth and whatnot."

"Oh?"  I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and nuzzled the back of his neck.  As it currently stood, the sum total of Julian's misspent youth stories defied all possible timelines.  But then, this story has corroboration - unlike the majority of his tales.

"Short version: I was the surgeon's assistant for his army.  Was there when he lost his arm." He lifted his head off the table just long enough to cover his face with his hands.  "Really, let's just go back to bed for another few hours."

“Okay.”  I put out the stove with a flick of my wrist, concerned because Julian has never given me an actual short version of a story before.  Even when he says he’s going to tell the short version, the story is at least five minutes of extraneous details and wild gesticulations.  I push my hand along the back of his neck and through his hair, flipping the mass of curls forward onto his face. “Come on, snoozes and snuggles, yes?”

* * *

I tried my best to keep the South End clinic running, spending mornings at my shop closer to the city center, and afternoons doing what I could for people at the clinic.  After the palace's order, apothecaries, midwives, and herbalists were the best help left in the city, augmented by a handful of the doctors who made time to leave the palace and do what they could.  Sometimes all I could manage to bring a basket of excess eggs from my chickens and handing them out people who showed up hungry.

Julian managed to get out of the palace a few days a week.  An afternoon or two, where he could run by the houses of people I had identified as most needing help.  A night spent with me before hurrying back in the morning, the sun chasing his heels. Sometimes he woke me, sometimes he didn’t.  But most concerning of all, my gangly, beautiful doctor of verbosity refused to talk about what was going on: who was in charge, what the palace had planned, if they had a plan, was there anything promising?  He only shook his head when I asked and quickly changed the subject. I quit asking.

We went on fool’s errands, visiting households that were already lost causes because leaving people to watch their family die alone was too cruel.  Not when there was neither rhyme nor reason to how the plague chose its victims. In one house, everyone would die in a matter of days - a mercy of sorts.  Other households would be picked away slowly, one member after another until there was no one left to suffer or to mourn. The worst cases were when a single member remained well, but alone and shunned by the community.  Not from a lack of pity, but from simple human fear. But the longer the plague rolled through the city the small mercy of sitting with someone in the midst of their pain seemed like the only meaningful course of action. When there was no cure to offer, no hope, presence was the only thing left to give.  

A South End woman who did piecework for the hatmakers in the city center appeared to be in the final category.  We'd been to her house multiple times over the past weeks. The father was dead for a week now. A sister gone soon after.  The oldest son last night. A middle child was feverish and starting to cough, but his eyes hadn't yet turned the red that guaranteed death.  It could just be a simple summer cold. I had brought a basket of eggs, bread, and a tureen of soup with me. It was pathetic. It was all I had.

Her youngest children were twins.  A boy and a girl, two years old and babbling to each other in their own private language.  While Julian some quietly with their mother, I sat in the floor and distracted them with pieces of bread spread with a thin layer of jam.  I had found a jar hiding in the backmost of corner of a cabinet in the shop - plum. It seemed like the kind of treat little ones would enjoy.

Neither twin showed any sign of illness.  And the red in their mother's eyes wasn't the vivid carmine of the plague, just the end result of too many deaths and too many tears.  She was listless as Julian promised to come back in two days. The boy tugged at her skirt until she picked him up. The girl tried to follow Julian and me out the door and howled in complaint when I set her back inside and closed the door on her.

“She doesn't have any other family.”  Julian said quietly as we walked down the street to the next house.  “To help her out with the babies. Or anything else.”

“We can't fix everything for everyone.”  I sounded just as miserable as he did. I squeezed his hand, and he wrapped his arm around my shoulders as we trudged to the next house on the list.  “I'll say something to Artemis." Some of the older midwives had arranged a network to check in on people who don't have anyone left. They had no fear of death left.

* * *

“It's almost noon, darling.  Shouldn't you be up?”

The mattress sunk down from Julian's weight.  “I'm awake,” I grumbled. Half truth, half lie, half didn't matter.  For the past several hours, I had been drifting in and out of dark dreams.  It wasn't really sleep even if it wasn't really wakefulness. I hadn't gotten much true sleep in a few weeks.  Not even when I had time to myself and quiet and herbal tea that should have convinced my thoughts to stop racing.  Julian slipped into bed behind me, looping one arm around me. Solid and warm and welcome.

“Were you up late?”

Wordlessly, I rolled over and pressed my face into his chest.  I had meant to do several things the night before, but my body was so tired when I got back from my rounds, and a quick nap in Julian's bed would so nice, and surely this time I'd be able to actually sleep for a few hours, then I would get myself back up, able to concentrate.  Truth, truth, truth, lie, lie. I knew I wouldn't really sleep, and even if I did, I wouldn't manage to get back out of bed. Should have tried to stay up, made some coffee to help me stay on task, and gotten something done, gotten anything done. The coffee would help, but I was getting to the point where I couldn’t concentrate at all anymore.  I’d forget what I wanted from the other side of the room before I was halfway across the floor. Useless. So very useless.

Julian was quiet for a moment, then wrapped an arm around me and rolled over so that he was laying on his back, and I'm cradled against his chest.  His fingers worked along my spine, kneading at the sore spots on my back and finally working into my hair and over my scalp.

I wanted to cry in relief.  His hands on me were connection back to the real world.  Bad enough, but at least not the demimonde of my seething dreams and the half dreams I still was trapped in even when I was walking the city and ratatattating of people’s heels behind me got into my head and I couldn’t get it out and the staccato beats consumed every other thought.  But I smothered the sob. No time for that. Not now.

Julian caught it anyway.  Damn him.

“Dema, are you alright?”

I shook my head, giving up on trying to fake it, and buried my face back against his chest.  He ran a hand through my hair for the space of a few breaths, then sat up and leaned back against the headboard, pulling me with him.  He cradled me against him and mumbled soothing nonsense while I cried. I wanted to freeze the passage of time and just stay here, feeling warm and loved.  Somewhere I could pretend was safe and protected.

“You don't have to keep up with everything on your own.”

“Someone has to.”  There wasn't anyone else out here, not after the palace had pulled anyone with a license, not in this neighborhood.

He squeezed me tight, and I felt him press his face into my hair.  “You can't save everyone.” Anyone.  _ He should say anyone. _   That was the true statement.  I kept my eyes closed as he ran his hands over my back, the soothing motion almost lulling me back to sleep.  “You're shaking. What's wrong?” He pushed me back and looked closely at my face. “When did you eat last?”

“Yesterday lunch, I think.”

“You think?”

“I'm not sure.  I've been nibbling on this and that.”  I curl back against him, head resting on his shoulder.  “Too busy or too tired for a real meal.”

“ _ Solnishka _ , you can't do that.  Trust me. I've tried it."  He should have used the present tense.  His cheeks had hollowed out over the past weeks as he lost weight that he didn’t have on his frame to begin with.   _ And there are too many lies already. _

I reached up and ran my hands over the planes of his face, then snuggled back against him, yawning and turning through the list I had been making in my head off things that needed to happen when Julian made it back into the city.  “We need to check on the milliner again.” I could still pretend her child only had a summer cold. A lie that I could believe until I stepped into that house again. A child neither dead nor alive until the door was open. Sometimes I needed my own lies to make it through another day.

“You need to eat.”

“I can eat an apple on the way.”

“No.  Real food.”  He slid me back down onto the bed, got up, and tucked a blanket around me before leaning over to kiss my temple.  Even though I knew I should be trying to get up, get out of bed, do something useful, I didn't fight him. I’m too tired.  Tired past my bones, tired to my very being. “Sleep a little more. I'll go find something to bring back.”

I felt like I had only just closed my eyes when I felt his hand on my shoulder again, gently shaking me awake.  Lips pressed softly against my cheek and an arm slide under my back, lifting me up and then leaning me back against a pillow.  

“Drink some water first.”  He pressed a cup into my hands, and I obliged him, even if it was stale tasting.  Too long in a cask. Water was still being brought in from the mountains as no one trusted the sources within the city.  He climbed into bed beside me and lifted a tray from the side table, balancing it on his knees. There was a massive bowl of some sort of chowder and a generous chunk of bread.

“That's at least enough for two.”

“You first, or do I need to feed you like a small child?”  The look he gave me was entirely serious. He’d do it.  

I picked up the spoon, and dipped it into the creamy soup.  “I just haven't felt hungry the past several days.”

“That doesn't mean you don't need to eat.”

I swallowed a mouthful of the chowder.  Mostly I could taste cream and caramelized onion.  It wasn’t bad, just clearly the result of everyone in the city running low on ingredients.  “Wanted sleep more.”

“How much have you been sleeping?”

Not enough and too much.  Any time I let myself fall asleep I'm out for ten hours or more, so I'd been trying to get as much accomplished as possible before crawling into bed.  Daylight hours running between my shop and the South End clinic. Night for my own research. Skimming books I borrowed from other practitioners in the city, a few Julian smuggled out of the palace library for me.  Scribbled notes that I grouped into piles, and eventually pinned to a space that I had cleared on the wall, trying to put bits of information together into a coherent whole that might actually do some good. I never really noticed being tired until I fell asleep in my chair - once in the floor of my shop leaning against my wall of notes - and then I was out for hours.  I shrugged, earning an exasperated sigh from Julian, but he softened a little when I put another spoonful of soup. I held the spoon out to him. “Trade. I’ll eat a spoonful for every one that you do.”

He rolled his eyes and me and took the spoon, scooping up some of the soup and popping it in his mouth.  “You’ve got to take care of yourself. I need you.”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

He set the spoon and ran his hand through my hair, brushes his thumb over my cheek, and leans over to kiss the tip of my nose.  “So, we’ll both, um, have to better. Okay?”

I manage a wan smile.  “Alright. It’s a deal then.”

* * *

I knocked at the milliner's door and waited for an answer.  Julian had sent me ahead while he finished splinting a broken arm that he had been flagged down to deal with.  Not everything was the plague. Life with all it bumps, and bruises, and breaks continued on, as mad as it seemed.  I knocked a second time. Usually the first knock brought the pounding of tiny feet and delighted squeals to the door, but the house was ominously silent.  A third knock, then I unlocked the latch with a quick spell before pressing the door open and calling out a greeting. No response.  

I should have waited for Julian, but I didn't. 

The ten year old's body was still in the first bedroom; flies had started to land on the sheet pulled over his face.  I stopped for a moment to lean my head against the doorframe and mutter a prayer to a god that I was fairly certain no longer listened, if he had ever listened in the first place.  I’d seen too much of this in the past few months to feel anything in the hollow of my chest. Yet, my hand trembled as I opened the door to the second bedroom, then jerked back to cover my mouth.  The mother lay in bed, one twin on either side of her. They were perfectly still, shirts painted red with blood from where their throats had been cut. Their mother lay between them. Blood stained her skirts and still seeped slowly from the deep cuts on both her arms and her legs.  I could find the faintest of pulses when I touched my fingers to her neck and scrambled to find the pressure points in her arms. Almost gone. Too far gone. There was no way I could stop the blood flow from the gouges in her arms and legs both.  

I held her hand instead and waited for the blood to stop following, growing in increasingly nauseous as I couldn’t stop myself from comparing the cuts on her arms to the scars on mine.  I didn't need to ask her why. Not that she would have heard me anyway. Finally, the faint pulse faded entirely. I scrambled off the bed and started to back away. The twin girl's eyes were open, staring blankly ahead, with sclera that were still perfectly white.  Her brother's head tipped unnaturally to the side.  

The girl's open eyes followed me as I backed into the wall and with a muffled cry, crumpled to the floor, curling in on myself, hand pressed against my mouth, teeth sinking into the meat of my palm, hoping the sting would break my mind out from the long howl it was trapped in.

It didn't.

“ _ O - dusha moi! _ ”  I don't know how long it was before I heard Julian's voice.  "Darling.”

He wrapped a hand around mine and pulls it away from my mouth.  I fought him for a moment then collapsed sobbing against him. Inside my head a long scream was muted like I was under water.  He says something that I can't quite process then picks me up and carries me out of the room. I'm set down somewhere, and draw my knees up to my chest wrapping my arms around them.  A cup of water is pressed to my mouth. “Don't swallow. Rinse your mouth and spit it back out. Okay, do that again for me.” Something else presses against my lips. “Sip of this, darling.”  Some kind of liquor burnt down my throat like fire. Cool water pours across my hand, then a sudden burning sting. 

I gasp and look up.  Julian sighs and presses his forehead to mine.  “You're still there. You . . . you scared me. Sorry for this.”  He splashed the liquor on my hand again, and with a hiss, I tried unsuccessfully to jerk it away from him.  When I looked down, I could see two crescents in my palm where my teeth had broken the skin. Julian pushed my head back and looked me in the eyes.  “You really should be cursing at me right now. That has to smart.”

I looked back down; my hands were still shaking.  He wiped the worst of the blood off my hands and face with a handkerchief damped with more alcohol and tossed it aside, putting both hands on my shoulders.

“I'm taking you home, okay?  Can you - do you want to walk?”

Hands on his shoulders for balance, I tried to stand, but my legs were shaking as badly as my hands.

“It's okay, darling.  Don't worry.” Julian's hands ran over my back.  “Here, just put your arms around my neck.” He hoisted me up, one arm underneath my thighs, the other wrapped around my back, pressing me close to his chest.  I buried my face in his neck and let myself get lost in his voice murmuring soothing things as he carried me home.

* * *

The next few hours were a haze interrupted by nightmares.  I watched myself in my little dormitory room all those years ago, the one I hadn't left for days because I couldn't stand for anyone to see me, the one where I had covered over the small mirror with a scarf because I couldn't stand to see myself either.   Or see the face that was supposed to be mine, but didn't feel like it was, and I couldn't stand the dissonance. I wanted both to stop the exhausted girl I had been and simultaneously wanting her to succeed, because I was so very, very tired now. Exhausted and with no end in sight.  And I wasn't doing anyone any good at all. Just burdening people who could be helping others.

I came to wearing a clean shift with my hand neatly bandaged and stumbled outside to feed my chickens in the morning light.  Then I knelt down in the garden to pull some weeds and forgot why I was there, until Julian found me and pulled me back inside.  He made me eat, bread and soup again. The baker's wife had sent it, he told me as he tried to talk me back into bed. But I'm not tired - another lie - and I'm scared - a truth - that if I close my eyes I'll see that girl, see myself again, and . . . No.

Julian gave up and followed me around the shop and the stillroom as I started tinctures, and mixed teas, and rambled about ideas that occurred to me that might help, might cure.  Maybe we shouldn't fight the fever that followed red eyes, made that needed to be allowed to run high, controlled just at the limit where it'd become deadly. Burn out the plague, in a way.  There might be a spell that would place an upper limit on a fever while letting it run its course. This book, I think it'd be in this one. Ilya, how high can a fever get before someone dies?   Or maybe the eyes needed to be treated directly. Perhaps a decoction of eyebright, fennel, and goldenseal? You haven't learned about those yet, have you? It's okay, honey, I'll explain.

Artemis came and took me by my shoulders, stroking my hair and gently scolding me for frightening “that poor boy.”  She brewed tea with valerian root and skullcap and poppy, strong and bitter, and made me drink it, and I did because ultimately it's always easier to just do what Artemis says because she’ll make you do it anyway, and Julian carries me to bed, when I can't keep my eyes from closing.

I saw Asra’s worried face in my dreams.  His lips moved, and I snapped my eyes open, not wanting to hear what he would say.  But the question turned in my head. Cruel or kind? Ready to say “I told you so,” or “I love you still.”  I closed my eyes again, hoping the answer would stop the questions, but he was gone, and I was so, so very cold, and there was snow falling around me, and I haven’t seen snow in years, but it hits my face and my arms in cold pinpricks that seep into my skin and carry the cold down into my bones and don’t think I’ll ever be warm again.  Maybe I don’t even want to be warm again, it’ll just be easier to be frozen. Iced over and unfeeling because I’m so alone, and I hurt, and everything just keeps falling apart, and I would try to put them back together, but I can’t feel my fingers anymore, and maybe I don’t even have fingers anymore because I think I’m falling apart the way a corpse does, some sort of livestock that died away from the pasture and no one noticed it was gone until it was half rotten.  Once when I was very little and didn't really understand death, I saw a calf like that, eaten from the inside out and collapsing in on itself, back in one of the far corners of the pasture, where ordered, grassy field turned to the chaos of forest, roots hidden underneath layers of leaves, ready to trip, or wild grapevines hanging from branches to become impromptu swings that you could fly through the air on laughing aloud and hoping that you didn’t smack into the trunk of another tree and scrape your arms, the side of your face on the rough bark.

I woke sobbing, clutching my arms to my chest and curling in on myself.  Julian held me, whispering in my ear: it's nothing,  _ nichevo, tolko koshmar _ , nothing, nothing, just a nightmare,  _ dorogaya _ , my darling.  His hands start at my shoulders, kneading tight muscles along my arms, down to my hands.  Slowly my fingers unclenched and my body loosened. He keeps murmuring to me, nonsense falling into cadences that I think might be poetry.  Still listening to his voice, I drifted back to sleep.

When I opened my eyes again, the light had started to dim in the window.  Evening. I got out of bed and shut the chickens up in their coop, dimly aware of Julian trailing me.  My mind was spinning still - too fast and so slowly and both at the same time - and it took all the focus I had to talk myself through the process of closing up the coop for the night, murmuring directions under my breath.

Chickens put away, I went to the kitchen, fed the stove salamander, and put on water to boil.  I got down the last bit of real tea from the cabinet and measured it into the smallest teapot. The first splash of water hit the leaves, and I buried my nose in the pot to catch the floral aroma before pouring over the rest of the water and sitting down at the table to wait for the tea to steep.  Julian sat across from me, fingers steepled and eyebrows furrowed as he repeatedly touched his index fingers to his lips.

The tea was still too hot when I took my first sip - almost scalding.  Perfect. It warmed me and slowly the caffeine worked its way through my limbs to my fingers and my head and my tongue, and I thought that maybe I could form words again.

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“I . . . Scaring you, panicking, I don't know.  Are you going to be in trouble at the palace? I'm just sorry.”

“ _ Solnishka _ , do you -”

“Really though - are you going to be in trouble?”

Julian shakes his head.  “No, I, uh, called in a favor.  I’ll be fine. Couldn’t have left you alone.”

“Thanks.”

“What else do you need, darling?”

“No.  I - this may sound weird - but I want to go out.  Dance, maybe, something, anything until I'm back in my body and not in my head.”

He fixed me with a considering look, then smiled.  “That doesn't sound so strange to me.”

“Really?”

“Why do you think I get into most of the stupid shit I do?”  He reached out and cupped my chin in his hand, running his thumb over my lips.  “Eat something, let me change that bandage, get dressed and I'll escort you anywhere you want to go.”

* * *

Julian tried to talk me into putting on a dress, if we're going dancing.  He'd wear one himself, of course, would love to see me in suit sometimes, but he doesn't think there's anything in my closet that will fit him.  He grins from ear to ear when I fish out a dove gray frock coat and change into, knotting a peacock blue tie around my neck.

"I'm holding you to the other half of the dare, you know that right?"

He didn't miss a beat.  "But, of course, darling, I've got this gorgeous red and black number.  And you should see me in heels. I practically ascend to the heavens."

It felt good to laugh.  Moreso to laugh with him holding me close.  A bubble of normalcy and simple, human pleasure.

I pulled on a pair of boots with sturdy four inch heels over the tightly fitted pants, and for once the top of my head almost reached his shoulder.  He arched an eyebrow at me. "How steady are you in those?"

"Reasonably so."

"Oho, I have an idea.  You're going to like this."

We found a bar with music and an open space in the floor.  It wasn't so hard to do. We were hardly the only ones looking for some escape - for any escape - from the world falling to pieces around us.  Julian spoke briefly with the musicians while I bought us both drinks.  

“Ever danced a tango before?”

I have not.  He recruited a few other patrons of the bar who are familiar with the dance - or just interested - into his lesson and went through the basic steps, introducing flourishes, dips, and lifts to the already sensual footwork.  I managed well enough, laughing when I get out of sync with the music or miss a step. Julian's an encouraging teacher, all gentle corrections and praise, and anyway, even with as many mistakes as I made, the steps end up with the two of us close together.

Which was, after all, the only thing I wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary sans details:  
>  _Flashback set during the plague.  
>  Julian is summoned to the palace to assist with research. Dema continues trying to maintain some sort of functioning clinic in the South End, with Julian only managing to get aware from the palace every two or three days, and while she’s getting increasingly hypomanic (with mixed features, if I’m going to get clinical). One of the families they’ve been checking in on is a mother and her three remaining children (husband and two other children have already died of the plague). After one of the remaining children dies, she kills herself and the two youngest. Dema finds her, triggers a mixed episode on her part, which takes several days and a goodly amount of Julian taking care of her to come out of. Basically, a plague is nasty, nasty business, and Dema’s basically been pushed to her limit._


	27. Fate is Not a Factor, I'm in Love with Every Actor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew... that... took a while to edit...
> 
> Chapter title from Amanda Palmer, "Want it Back"

_Present._

 

Sunlight streams through the window of my guest room when I open my eyes.  Mid morning, if I had to guess. Julian and I are tangled together in the bedsheets.  He's reclined on his side, head propped on his arm, watching me with a contented smile on his face.  He trails a hand throughout a lock of my hair and down my sternum to circle around my navel. “Morning, _solnishka moya._ ” 

I don't need to ask him to translate.  Sunshine. He's called me this before, in some prior moment that we've both lost.

I reach up and trace the sharp curve of his jaw with the back of my fingertips. “Good morning.  How long have you been watching me sleep?”

“Not long enough.  It’s never long enough.”  He leans over and kisses me.  Lips brush the corner of my cheek.  Tongue draws across my lips, pushing past them -

\- and we're interrupted by a brisk knock on the door.

“Shit!”  Julian leaps out of bed and grabs his pants and boots out of the floor.  I scramble up, slipping back on the discarded robe from last night and wrapping myself in a blanket for good measure.  Gesturing for Julian to hide in the bath, I approach the door.

There's a second knock and a shouted greeting _cum_ warning.  “Dema, are you there?  If you are, I’m coming in.”

Portia.  I’m relieved, although she is really the only person I could have logically anticipated, and the wards I set last night shouldn’t allow anyone entry with my leave. 

Julian hears his sister's voice and pokes his head out of the bath. “Get dressed,” I hiss at him.  “Coming, Portia!” I roughly shake out a blanket and toss it over the bed, before I undo the wards I placed last night and open the door for Portia.

“Dema, oh you _are_ here! Milady sent -”

“Portia,” I take her arm and pull her inside.  “Why don't you step in for a second.” Nudging the door closed, I replace the wards from the previous night before turning back to her and state bluntly, “Julian's here.”

On cue, Julian - now wearing his pants and shirt, boots and jacket in hand - steps out of the bathroom.  “Hi, Pasha.” He's blushing again; although, given Portia’s general attitude and prior knowledge, I don’t understand why.

Portia crosses her arms in front of her and gives us both a look that oscillates between amusement and feigned censure.  “Well.” She raises one finger and shakes it at me in a scolding motion while smirking. “That explains the sleeping in at least.  Have fun while I spent all of yesterday worrying without nary of word about where you were or what you were up to?”  

While he's doing the clasps up the sides of his boots, Julian glances up at Portia and smiles nonchalantly, “I'm innocent.”

“You are?”  She squeals and darts across the room, throwing her arms around him.  “Of course, you are! Who finally convinced you?”

“Umm . . .  Big guy, friend of Asra's, said the fire started before-”

“Asra!”  Portia jumps at the name.  “I almost forgot! Dema, Asra is here.  He and Milady are waiting for you on the portico overlooking the garden.”

“I better go.”  There is too much riding on Nadia’s good graces to leave her waiting.  “Can you hide Julian in your cottage?”

“Well.”  She looks back and forth between us.  “I can if I can get him there.”

“I'll glamour you again, Julian.”  I pick his jacket and overcoat up from the floor and offer them to him.  “Same as last night, as long as you don't walk straight into someone, people will just see Portia with no one.  Only lasts for ten minutes though, so hurry.”

Finally finished with his boots, Julian gets out of the chair and takes the rest of his clothes from me, leaning down to quickly kiss my mouth.  “Should I start searching for the lab?”

“Lab?  One of you is going to have to tell me what's going on.”

“I will, Pasha.”  Julian stoops down to throw an arm around her shoulders.  “Soon as we’re at your place.”

“Wait for me.  I'll come to Portia's cottage as soon as I can.  Portia, maybe you can figure out some way that Julian could search the palace with me without me having to keep glamouring him.”

Portia looks skeptical but hopeful.  I smile at her and hope it's reassuring before reaching the sigils of the glamour around Julian.  

Once they leave, I wash my face and throw on the first clothes that come to hand in my haste to get to the portico.  It's not that late in the morning. To have arrived so quickly, Asra must have left Muriel's at dawn, if not before. I wonder what he's told Nadia so far.  Perhaps she’s willing to take his word that Julian is innocent, or perhaps, that’s too much to hope for. 

* * *

Nadia and Asra sit together at a small wrought iron table that has been set up in the portico, laughing together over a pot of tea and a generous plate of pastries.  Asra's eyes crinkle with pleasure, and the Countess looks happier than I have ever seen her. I pause, reluctant to interrupt a pleasant moment. However, Nadia sees me and beckons me to them.

“Dema, how good of you to finally join us!”  She pats the seat beside her with a gracious smile.  “Did Portia find you?”

“She did.”  Asra pours a cup of tea for me.  Even with Nadia and the palatial setting, this feels like home for the moment.

“I hope you rested well.  Your master has been improving my mood with some tales from his travels. I'm afraid I haven't slept well for the past several nights.  Nightmares.”

“Nightmares, Countess?”

She pauses for a moment and her brow furrows before she replies.  “Yes. Nightmares. Or at least disturbing dreams.” There’s something else behind her words.  Details that she has chosen not to share. “I have reconsidered what you said the other evening at dinner.  The Count’s ghost is indeed haunting that wing, and I want him gone before the masquerade begins. Put him to rest.  It will be better if that is the case.”

“We could do a blessing of the room.”  Asra folds his hands in his lap. “I would like to try to get some information from his ghost first.”

Before he can continue, we're interrupted by two of Nadia’s courtiers.  

Vulgora, brash as the last time I met them, stomps toward us, some object crushed in their gauntleted fist.  Volta, ever curiously endearing, scurries after them. She claps her tiny hands together with glee when she sees the set table and helps herself to a pastry - two pastries, one for each hand.

“Countess!” Vulgora slams their fist down on the table.  Asra and I startle. He fixes the Pontifex with the same attention that Valdemar merited -  a likely threat to be watched with care. Nadia refuses to respond to their rube grab for attention; she calmly moves several pastries from the serving dish to a small plate and offers it to Volta with a benevolent smile before returning her attention to Vulgora.

“Yes, Pontifex?”

Vulgora opens their fist and drops a crushed carmine beetle onto the middle of the table. “My house has been infested with these insects.  A swarm has been arriving on an eastern wind for the past hour.”

Asra, Nadia, and I exchange a look.  The return of the beetles to the city environs is the final confirmation that the plague is indeed returning.  And there is little chance that they will limit their pestilence to Vulgora. Asra produces a square of silk from his sleeve and delicately drapes it over the insect.  “That should be burnt.”

Volta looks up from her pastries, noticing Asra and me for the first time. “Oh, Countess, your magicians are multiplying!”

“Procurator Volta,” Asra greets her with surprise as if he suddenly remembers the funny little woman's name.  The slight smile on his lips contrasts with the disgust with which he had greeted Valerius or the caution granted Valdemar and Vulgora.  He must have fonder memories of her. “You could smell the plague.”

“Oh yes, it set my teeth on edge!”

“Volta, your work separating clean food from the beplagued was invaluable.”  The tiny woman beams under Nadia’s approving gaze. I wonder how much is genuine on Nadia’s part, or if she is still trying to put Vulgora in their place  “And Vulgora, your . . . Enthusiasm for the battlefield has greatly benefited this house.” She lifts a cup of tea to her lips and looks up at the Pontifex through her eyelashes before setting it back down.  “I wonder if I might impose on you to unleash some of your prowess upon the insects?”

“Ah, yes, why I am here when I could be eradicating every last one of them!  Come, Volta.” They seem completely oblivious to how easily Nadia manipulated their ego as they march down the steps.  Portia is coming up the same steps as they descend. The Pontifex shouts for her to make sure that their rooms are prepared in the evening.  Portia’s displeased expression suggests that the preparations may involve a few subtle adjustments to ensure an individualized level of ‘comfort.’  

Nadia wraps the remaining breakfast pastries in a napkin and presses the bundle into Volta’s hands with a smile.  Volta exclaims her thanks before scurrying off after Vulgora.  

The Countess’s mask of calm drops once her courtiers have left.  “This is terrible news. If the plague is returning now - when guests have already begun to arrive . . .”

Asra reaches across the table and places his hand on hers. “One thing at a time, Nadi.”

She calms herself with a deep breath and rises from her chair.  Asra and I follow suit. Asra adds the small flourish of a half bow, that complements rather than contrasts with his informal mode of address for her.  “Very well. We'll try this blessing of yours. If it does nothing but ease my nightmares, so much the better.”

“It would be most effective if I could confront Lucio’s ghost directly.”

Nadia’s eyebrows arch and once again I suspect that there is something that she hasn’t shared with us.  “Are you sure that is something you want to do? And how to propose to accomplish such a thing?”

Asra steps toward her and whispers something in her ear.  Her eyes widen, then she nods. “Very well, but first.” She looks both of us over.  “I must invite you to bathe. You both look as if you spent the night in a ditch.” Asra's clothes are covered with mud and mine are no better, I must have grabbed what I wore last night.  “Portia, would you see to it that a bath is drawn for our guests? Use mine. It's the finest in the palace.”

“Of course, Milady.  Magicians, if you'll come with me.”  Portia efficiently herds us through the palace stopping to give instructions to another servant who dashes off to carry them out.  Once we are out of earshot of the Countess and the other staff, she begins to whisper. “I've got my brother hidden for the moment.” 

Asra looks Portia over carefully, then smiles warmly at her.  “You’re Ilya’s sister?”

“Yes?  Why?”

“Somehow I expected you to be shorter.  With muddy knees and a slingshot in your back pocket.”

She giggles.  “Oh, that’s been a while ago.  He told you about me though? He hadn’t forgotten?”

Asra shakes his head, a genuinely kind smile on his lips.  “Not at all.”` He looks over to me a question in his eyes.  “You got Ilya caught up on everything then?”

“Yes, on _everything._ ”  I emphasize the last word.  “We’re going to search for the dungeon laboratory today.”

“Both of you?”

“I don’t think he should do that on his own.”

“Of course.  You’re right.”  He touches my arm.  “He shouldn’t face that by himself, wherever it is.  When we’ve finished here I want to go through some things at the shop.  See if I can find anything that will help us. You go with Ilya.”

“I'm going to borrow a uniform for him from the laundry and tell the staff that I've hired an extra servant to assist you.  It should keep most people from asking questions, but it won't fool Milady, so you can't let her see him.” At the door leading into Nadia’s bath, Portia stops and looks intently at both of us.  “Asra, your friend - will he tell the Countess that Ilya’s innocent, right?”

“He.”  Asra bites his lip.  “He will if he has to, but wouldn’t it be better to have some sort of tangible evidence?  Truly. I’m afraid he wouldn’t be believed.”

Portia’s face falls, then her eyes flash in anger.  “Do you think you can find enough? You can’t just let him die.”

“We'll do our best,” I give her a half hug, trying to reassure her.  Nadia is the person I am least worried about convincing. Even if Muriel shared what he knew, I suspect that the rest of the court would be hard to bring around.  And Asra is right, they might not believe him, especially under a spell that causes people to forget him.

“I just hope it's enough.”

* * *

The Countess's bath is more of a small pool, high in a tower with a window that overlooks the city.  A servant has already filled the pool and laid out fresh towels and robes. If Portia has questions about our various relationships, she doesn't ask them as she pushes us in and closes the door.

As the door latches behind us, Asra presses me against it and kisses me, deep and long.  It feels _right_ , and I wonder how it has taken me three years to realize this was being held back.  We're both breathless when he breaks it off, staring into each other's eyes while our chests rise and fall in near unison.  “I've wanted that for so long. Every time I come home.”

“Asra.”  With one hand tangled in his soft hair, I pull him back to me and kiss him - gently this time.  He allows it for a moment, then spins me around and pushes me back against the door. Pushing my hair to the side, he finds a spot high on the back of my neck, nipping and sucking at it. I gasp in pleasure and surprise.  It is definitely a _spot_ of which I was unaware.  Behind me, Asra laughs in delight and runs his hands down my back.

“Let's not waste the finest bath in the palace.”

He already has his shirt off and is undoing his belt by the time I turn around.  The muscles of his back ripple, and I feel a compulsion to trace each one. I stumble after him, undoing my waistband as I go.  He turns and catches me, pulling my shirt over my head, sucking on my bottom lip, and dragging his thumbnails lightly over the skin just underneath my breasts.  Another spot. He must have a map.

Once undressed, I sink into the bath with a sigh.  Perfection doesn't begin to describe the temperature of the water.  I dunk my head under the water, letting the warmth wash across my face.  Lifting my head, I push my drenched hair back. Faust is curled on a comfortable looking cushion, basking in the moist heat rolling off the water.  Across from me, the water laps at Asra’s hips as he sorts through the assorted bottles housed on a shelf beside the pool. I step behind him, sliding my hands along his shoulders and arms.  As with so many things, I know I've passed my hands over his chest and the flat planes of his stomach before, but I can't recall the memory itself.

“Which do you like more?”  He offers two different bottles from the collection.  I sniff each one.

“The vetiver.”

“Mmm . . . I thought so.  Let me get your hair.” He turns around in my arms.  His eyes are sparkling with a smile - amethyst, more than lavender, right now.  If I were a cat, I’d purr as his hands work lather through my hair. But I’m not, so I settle on tipping my head back, eyes closed.  Asra’s mouth finds my throat, starting high, just under my chin and working lower. He reaches my collarbone and stops abruptly.

“What?”  I open my eyes.  One side of his mouth quirks up in an impish grin.

“You should rinse your hair out before the soap gets in your eyes.”

 _Tease._   I narrow my eyes as him and dunk myself back beneath the water.  Keeping my hands on his hips, I find the place where his thigh meets the rest of his torso and press my mouth against it, tonguing and sucking until I feel his cock twitch.  Rising back out the water, I push my hair out of my eyes, smile innocently, and step around him to inspect the contents of the shelf. Two can play at that game.

“Which of these do _you_ like?”  I pick up one in a cut crystal bottle.  It smells of lavender. Too obvious. I put it down and pick up an amber tinted bottle.  “Mmmm . . . how about sandalwood?” 

“I trust your judgment.”

“Sandalwood it is then.”  I find a clear space along the edge of the bath and pull myself out of the water to sit on the edge.  I'll be able to reach his hair better with the extra height. “Come here.”

I wrap my legs around his waist and start working the creamy soap into a lather and through his hair.  The muscles in his neck and shoulders are tight, so I go ahead and work my fingers down his neck and across his shoulders.  He leans into my arms, groaning as I continue working my fingers down his spine. 

I reach the two dimples where his back and ass meet and make myself stop.  Sitting up, I smirk at him. “Rinse off. Wouldn't want you getting soap in your eyes.”

Returning my smirk, he dunks himself.  He lifts his head back above the water and pauses with his face between my parted legs, before pressing a kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other.  Then my belly, sternum, each breast, collarbone, neck, until I'm lying back on the floor with him leaning over me. He finishes at my mouth and pulls back.

“I am not making love to you for the first time in a cold marble floor.”

I whine and half sit up, weight resting on my elbows. “Technically, it wouldn't be the first time.”

“First time in years, first time in recent memory.  Whatever. You deserve better than a tile floor and a rushed timeline.”

I roll my eyes.  “Romantic.”

“I've been called worse.”  He climbs out of the bath and offers me a hand up.  “Come on, I'll fix your hair for you.”

We wrap each other in towels and dry off before settling onto a bench at one side of the steamy room, half-dressed in robes of silk voile.  Asra's braided my hair hundreds of times before, but there's something different now as he sections it out and begins plaiting the locks into a French braid.  “Your hair was short - shorter than mine - the first time I met you. You said it was too warm in this damn city, and you didn't have time to bother with it.”

“What happened?”

“You grew it out one winter and decided that you enjoyed wearing braids.”

“Were you the one who started braiding it?”  I almost never braid my hair when left to my own devices, but I do love them.  Both wearing them and the feeling of someone’s hands working my hair into them.

“No, that was your aunt, the one you inherited the shop from.”

With my eyes closed, I want to tell myself that I can feel a different pair of hands in my hair and an older woman's voice.  But there’s no memory there. Not really. Just the desire for one.

“I don't remember her at all.”

“She was kind.  She taught me, instead of running me off, even before you came to live with her.  I think I only saw her angry once, when you came home with that tattoo.”

“Tattoo?  But I don't have any tattoos.”

“Well . . .”  He ties a bit of ribbon around the end of the braid and tosses it over my shoulder before pressing his lips to the other side of my neck.

“Asra?”  I twist around where I can see him.  He’s looking down, avoiding my eyes. Cagey again.

“It's . . . complicated.”

“Everything is with you.”  I turn back around, looking out over the pool, steam still rises from it, obscuring the view through the window.  His arms wrap around my shoulders and pull me back against his warm chest. Faust slides down his arm and into my lap, coiling into a contented looking circle.  I wish I could just ignore the tension between us like she does.

“Dema, I promise I'll tell you everything - at least, everything that I know - once I figure out how to.”

“And when will that be?”

“Soon, I think. I hope.”

We're interrupted by Portia's distinct pattern of knocks at the door, announcing that they've finished our _ever so strange_ preparations for the blessing.  I’m a bit dismayed to see that she hasn’t bought any clothing options with her.  I don’t see how being relegated to the gauzy robes in the bath could have any positive effect on the matter at hand, but perhaps it’s part of Asra’s strange plans.

“How's Julian?”  I ask Portia in a low voice as she escorts us through the halls.  

“I gave him a book, a beer, a pencil, and a stack of blank paper.  Then I told Pepi to sit on him and not move. Made sure Pepi still had him pinned down and topped up the beer a few minutes ago.  That reminds me.” She pulls a folded paper out of her sash. “I'm supposed to give you this.”

The paper unfolds into a list with the ostentatious title: _An Illustrated Compendium on the Practicalities of Ridiculous Boots.  No. 1: seasonal flooding . . ._  Julian has accompanied each item in his list with a quick sketch, presumably of him, given the curly hair, black gloves, and thigh-high boots.  He's left out his signature eye patch. It will suit me fine if I never see it again, but I doubt that will be the case.

Asra leans over my shoulder examining the fourth sketch which shows Julian holding some sort of double-pronged spear.  “No. 4: frog gigging.” He laughs and smiles. “So, Ilya is still capable of being adorable. What's this in the margin?”

I turn the paper on its side and peer at the smaller scrawl.  “‘Or skink gigging, A. I know you're reading this.’ I think he's getting a bit loopy.”

“Tell me about it.”  Portia gripes. “I assume that you two are up to something important, but I don't know how I'm going to keep him still for much longer.”

“Portia, are you scared of snakes?”  Asra unwinds Faust from his shoulders.

“No.  Why?”

“I'm going to send Faust with you to help with Ilya, if that's okay.  Faust, think you can keep him in one place without squeezing him too hard?”

“ _Slippery boy?  Squeeze?_ ”  Faust flicks her tongue against Asra's face and he laughs.  

“You probably don't need to squeeze him.  Just sit in the doorway. Unless there's a window.  Portia, do you have a window?”

“Umm . . . Yes.”

“Hmm . . . Okay, Faust, just don’t squeeze too hard.”  He hands Faust to a startled looking Portia. Her blue eyes get even bigger as Faust slithers into her wide sleeve to hide.  “We can find our way from here, Portia, thank you.”

We pass by the library door.  I hesitate for a moment then stop and grab Asra’s hand.  “What is it?”

“I found a book.”

Worry begins to crease his face, and then, with and blink and a shake of his head, he regains control of his muscles, lifting an eyebrow at me.  “It is the library.”

“This one was . . . different.  Old, handwritten. Dark spells that required blood.  And it was filled with your notes.”

He loses his composed expression, brows furrowing together then twitching in what might be panic.  His eyes dart to from my face to one sandaled foot, then the other. “Dema.” He grabs my hand, pressing it between both of his, but he doesn’t raise his eyes to mine.  “You have to understand how desperate I was - how desperate we were.”

“What were you trying to do?  Those spells - I’ve never seen anything like them.  Summon the dead? Possess a body? Are those things even possible?”  

His hands are trembling around mine.  He leans forward and presses his lips briefly to my forehead.  “Yes.” The syllable is almost silent, breathless. “Anything is possible if you’re willing to pay the price.”

“Asra.”  I take a step back from him.  “What were you doing?”

He clutches at my hand, pulling it to his choice.  “I can’t tell you. Not yet.”

I let it go, lying to myself that this will be the last time.

* * *

Nadia waits for us at the bottom of the stairway leading to Lucio’s wing.  She, too, is dressed in comfortable attire, a voile robe layered over a silk caftan and gathered at her waist by a heavily embroidered belt.  Her thick hair is piled artfully on her head to appear artless.

Somewhat away from the public eye, she’s letting her nerves show, pacing back and forth at the base of the stairs.  I wonder briefly where Lucio’s hounds are and which servant was tasked with the unenviable job of minding them if they had been sent away.  

“Ah, here the two of you are.  I confess that I was beginning to have second thoughts.” 

Asra flashes one of his trademark smiles, the kind that could charm the whiskers off a cat.  “Just took our time enjoying your hospitality, Nadi.”

“Very good.  I do hope you both enjoyed yourselves.”  Her nervous face blossoms into a benevolent smile.  “I’ve done what you asked, much to the discombobulation of the servants.”

“And what exactly was that, Asra?”  I’m not in the mood for any more surprises or secrets.

“Let’s go on upstairs.”  He offers an arm to both Nadia and me and starts up the stairs.  “I thought, perhaps, we could taunt Lucio’s ghost out of the woodwork with some of his favorite delicacies.  The kinds of things that we can enjoy and that he can’t.”

I expect my head to begin pounding the further we climb up the stairs, or at least, for the air to change temperature around me.  Neither happens. The wing still feels . . . off. But it isn’t the same as it was before, either the first night or when I returned with Julian and Portia.  Somehow, it’s not as . . . desperate. Yes, desperate, I think that’s the word. Not so desperate.

“Something is different.”

“I did have the servants do some cleaning while you were gone.  It truly was a disaster, whoever is responsible for the mess.”  

She’s not telling the entire truth.  Cleaning . . . cleaning alone would have only upset Lucio more than he had been.  Removing the familiar without providing any of the things he truly desired. He should be in a rage or, at least, a state of confusion.  Yet, somehow the wing feels satisfied - no, satiated. I hold my tongue anyway, waiting to see what she’s arranged on Asra’s orders.

There’s a hint of cold air around my feet as we approach the bedroom, enough that it could be a draft, or possibly a ghost waking from some strange sort of nap.  As Nadia said, the bedroom has been cleaned. The room has been aired and the mattress on the bed replaced along with all the linens. In place of the grim darkness, there are candles burning in the mirrored sconces and the hanging lamps are lit.  The room almost looks cheerful. Laid out on folding tables and on the foot of the bed are platters of delicacies, fresh fruits, pastries, several selections of wine.

The sooty ragged carpets have been removed and the floor swept clean beneath them, but _there it is!_   I can just make out faint chalk lines on the flagstone floor beneath.  Lines which form an intricate, foreign pattern that pulses faintly with residual energy.  Cleaning, yes. But not cleaning alone.

“Precisely what I had in mind.”  Asra sprawls backward on the plush bed, arms spread to either side of him.  “Do you remember, Nadi. He’d use to demand we come keep him company when he was stuck in here.  Pay court.”

The Countess joins him, folding her legs elegantly beneath her.  “I don’t recall, per se, but yes, I recently found some of my old journals, and they reference such gatherings.  And drinking wine out of a teacup.” She smirks and reaches over to the table beside her, pouring white wine into a delicate porcelain teacup.

“Journals?”  I can’t keep the excitement from my voice.  “Have you finished reading them yet? They might explain just what happened!”

Nadia shakes her head.  “No, not yet. I was . . . A bit verbose it seems.  And, if I read them too long my headaches start."

Asra grabs my hand and pulls me toward him until I tumble onto the bed between him and Nadia.  I have to catch my breath, both from the unexpected motion and way the room suddenly flashes back to ashy and dark, and it’s a different hand tumbling me into this bed.  Asra catches the shift in my mood and runs a hand across my face. “Dema.”

“I’m okay.”  I roll onto my back and lift myself up on my elbows, surveying the light-filled room to reassure myself that it hasn’t actually reverted to its prior state.  Nadia offers me my own teacup of wine, and I sip from it, grateful for the alcohol even if I’m no judge of white wine. “And just what did you do while playing court?”

“Oh, listen to stories about the good old bloody days.  Play games. Truth or dare. He’d loved that one, even if he was getting pretty bad at carrying out the dares by the end.”  Asra badly hides a cruel smile.

“Truth or dare?”  I feel a little thrill of deviousness shoot through me at the idea.  I wouldn’t mind a few daring truths right now. “Shall we play that?”

Asra drapes himself over my lap and stretches out a hand to snag a grape from the table.  “That’s an excellent idea. Nadi, want the first turn?”

She slaps Asra’s hand lightly, the way one would scold a naughty child and the corners of her mouth quirk up in amusement.  “Very well, Dema, truth or dare?”

“Dare.”  I’m not sure how many truths I could possibly answer, not with the holes in my memory.  

“Very well.”  She places one of the grapes Asra had been reaching for in my hand.  “Feed Asra this.”

Asra rolls over in my lap, face up with his hands folded behind his head.  So it’s this kind of game. Asra bats his eyes at me, looking entirely innocent, and I can’t help but chuckle as I hold the grape to his mouth.  His teeth close delicately around it as he takes it from me, and I let my fingertips linger as he swallows. Eyes closed, he moves his mouth again, drawing my fingers between his lips and running his tongue over them.  “Mmm . . . delicious.”

We play a couple of rounds.  Asra reveals that his favorite dish is still, to this day, deep-fried skink (which explains Julian’s cryptic marginal note in his _Compendium on Ridiculous Boots_ ), then dares Nadia to redo my hair, which results in a complex set of braids that I’m not entirely sure that anyone other than she or Portia will be able to undo.  And finally, back to me.  

“Truth or dare, my lady?”

“Hmm, truth.”

“What did you really do in here?  Other than have the room cleaned.”

The amusement falls away from her face, but she doesn’t seem angry.  “I should have known that you would realize something changed beyond the bed hangings.”  She takes a long drink from her wine cup and refills it, holding out the bottle to refill mine.  “I did, after all, bring you here for a reason. Very well. I was not entirely truthful this morning.  It was not precisely nightmares that disturbed my sleep last night. I contacted Lucio’s ghost on my own, or, well, with the Consul.”

Asra’s eyes morph from their habitual lazy expression to alert.  “You did? Did you learn anything?”

She attempts to hide a blush with another drink from her teacup.  “Not anything of much use. He believes that he’ll somehow be brought back to life, permanently.  How? Well, he mentioned a patron, but Lucio was never one for finer details.”

A cold draft pushes through the room at her comment.  _“You were kinder last night, Noddy.”_   The sibilant whisper fills the room.  Nadia looks over the portrait hanging on the wall, something to address instead of speaking to empty air.

“I gave you a chance to make your peace, Lucio.”

Silence.

“Truth, Dema.”  Nadia doesn't give me a choice, but it feels fair after what I sprung on her.  “I know you've been helping Devorak. And -” She raises her hand to forestall my immediate response.  “I now believe that he is innocent.”

 _“Of course he is, fools.”_   Another hissed whisper whirls around us.  Nadia shivers and I feel cold fingers graze my leg.  Behind me, Asra hugs me to his chest hiding his face in my hair.  _“Jules is the only innocent one out of the fucking lot of you.  Thieves and traitors all.”_

Nadia ignores him.  “When did you know?”

“I only ever said I would try to help you uncover the truth.”

“I do not accuse you of lying to me.  I only seek to satisfy my curiosity.”

“Almost immediately.  I -” I don't know how to explain how I knew that Julian was innocent.  “I just knew.”

“A friend of mine, one who didn’t lose his memories confirmed it.  But . . . people lost their memories of him instead.”

Nadia nods solemnly and arranges a lock of hair she left hanging loose over my face.  “I think I am beginning to understand.” She looks sad. “But I am not at all sure how to move forward."

All three of us sit quietly in the same becalmed boat.  Nadia passes the bottle of wine around again and even Asra takes a sip.  He shakes his head, then lifts his hand into the air with a grasping motion.  His tarot deck materializes in his fingers and he forces a smile. “Shall we?”

“In earnest, or another game?”  Nadia asks.

Asra shrugs.  “Or both? Dema, have any ideas for a spread?”

I do.  We may be more honest with each other than we were minutes ago, but there are still too many secrets.  Things unsaid and things forgotten. “Yes.” I take the deck from Asra and begin shuffling the cards. “This is a reading to understand a haunting.  And that's what we are, after all. Haunted.” There’s a brush of cold against my cheek. Fingertips again.

Asra rearranges himself, so that he’s sitting with his legs on either side of me, and his chest pressed to my back, and I lean back against him as my hands still over the cards.  The weight of his chin resting on my shoulder and his warmth at my back reassure me that at least, I’m not alone.

“Would you rather use your own deck?”  His breath brushes over my ear.

“Yes.”

He folds his hands around mine, holding them over the cards.  “Close your eyes. See your deck in your mind.” Magic pulses along his hands and through mine.  When I open my eyes, the deck has changed. Mine. Plain and worn. I sink closer into Asra's embrace, unable to explain how he - it perhaps we - accomplished the switch but relieved to have my own cards.

“Impressive.  I didn't know you were a conjurer as well.”  Nadia refills our cups from the second bottle of wine.  Red this time. The structured tannins are welcome on my tongue, both as a contrast to the white wine and the spectral quality of this little diversion we’ve gotten ourselves into.  “Asra, would you like some tea? I believe you don't care so much for wine.”

“Actually, under the circumstances -”  He shifts behind me, looking around the room.  “I won't turn down wine."

There’s the hint of a laugh from the other side of the bed.  Nadia pointedly ignores it as she fills a third teacup and passes it to Asra.  “Of course, forgive my rudeness for having not yet offered.”

I hand my cup to Nadia to hold as I shuffle my deck.  The cards are warm, as though I’ve been holding them in my hands for some time now, rather than having abandoned them in my guest room.  I close my eyes as they whisper and sigh beneath my fingers. After the fourth shuffle they feel ready. It’s another breath before I open my eyes and deal the cards.  Six total: a row of three, a single card in the center, and two cards above.

“This first row tells us something about those involved in the haunting and the effect thereof.  Despite our current guest -” I pause and Lucio’s ghost rewards me with a low chuckle. He seems to have settled somewhere on the corner of the bed opposite us.  “This doesn’t necessarily refer to a spirit. It could be a past event, known, or kept secret.”  

The first card I turn over is the Ace of Swords, reversed.  Secrets, it hisses in my ear like Faust might, but without her beneficent tones.  The Ace is followed by two other reversed cards, both speaking to the same theme: The Magician and the Fool.

“Lies will lead you off a cliff.”  The words are the sort of vague verbiage that I try to avoid when giving reading, but they leave my lips as quickly as they entered my head.  I pause, trying to recollect myself, failing as the words continue to come. “There’s been a break in communication, and from that control has been lost, sacrificed, as a failed offering.”  The Magician’s voice in my ear now, repeating the words he spoke in his realm: _Things got a bit out of control, didn’t they?_   “Others allow themselves to be carried along by the stories they have been told, and they risk being carried over a cliff, singing as they do.”

The stream of words dries up, and I lean my head back against Asra’s shoulder, letting him take some of  my weight for a moment. Nadia presses the cup of wine back into my hand, and I drink deeply. Stopping now isn’t an option, but I could use a little extra nerve to continue.  “The center card speaks to the nature of the secret being kept.” I turn it over. Another reverse, the Queen of Wands. The words are quite as much of a rush this time, but they still come from somewhere outside of me.  Outside of me, because these words are to me, _for me_.  “More broken connections, between the outer self and the inner, true self.  A fragmentation. One that can’t be repaired without restoring the communion, the trust that was lost.”  Another drink of wine and a few deep breaths.

“Dema, dear, do you need to stop?”  Nadia's concerned voice feels distant, so unlike the voices of the cards that are within me and without me all at once.  Do I need to stop? Is there an I, or is it more if a we, and the I was lost long ago, appearing now only a simulacra?

It would be easier to end the reading now, ask Nadia to hand me the bottle to finish, lean back against Asra and let him kiss my neck and stroke my hair until I’ve no words left, either the cards or my own.  Let him whisper in my ear instead. That everything will be fine. We're safe. We have each other, and he'll never leave me alone again.

 _No._ The Queen urges me on.

“The fifth and sixth cards.  Something about the what must be revealed and a hint of the outcome.”  I hold out my hand, but my fingers freeze, hovering over the cards and refusing to move.  These cards aren’t meant for me to turn. “Asra.”

There’s a warm press of lips to the skin beneath my ear, and Asra’s hand reaches past mine.  He hesitates for a moment then turns the fifth card. An upright card at last: _Death_.

All three of us are silent.  Asra's free arm is locked around my waist, as though he's scared that Death will appear in person to take me away.  Nadia's quiet is contemplative, musing on the possible meanings of the card without rushing to judgment. As for me, I feel an affinity for the girl slumped in front of Death's horse.  Passive, accepting my fate. Even if it leads me over a cliff. Is that me?

“Things are out of order as they stand, and they must be restored.”  The words rush past my own questions of existence and ontology. The words are the only phenomenon of importance.  “Nature will reclaim herself, but she will not remain the same. Death and truth are alone in that they eventually come for everyone, and all the petitions in the world will not save you from either.”

“Dema?”  Asra's voice is soft in my ear.  “Are you still with me? Stay with me.”

I turn my hand over, twine my fingers through his and squeeze our palms together.  My voice isn't my own now; it won't be again until this reading is finished, but I'm here.  I think. I hope. Who's thinking? Who's hoping? Don't.

He squeezes my hand in turn and flips over the sixth card.  His relieved sigh is warm against my neck. The Four of Wands, upright.  It answers the Ace of Swords in the first row. Celebration, harmony, homecoming at the end of a journey filled with struggle.  Nadia speaks, relieving me of the duty. “So if this breakdown of communication and trust is mended, the Fool comes home instead of going over the cliff.  But it won't be easy. All of us involved will have to endure a death of sorts to make things right?”

My head nods, and I sag forward as the words of the cards let me go.  Nadia catches me before I fall across the cards and into her lap. Asra takes my shoulders and lifts me up, cradling me against him and breathing soft, soothing hisses in my ear, and I can't help but feel some safety leaving against him with my eyes closed.  The last card is positive, but following on the heels of Death as it does, the path to reach that end will not be free of pain.  

A cool cloth presses against my forehead, and I open my eyes.  Nadia leans forward, peering at me with a little worry line between her brows.  “Dema, are you alright?”

“I'm . . .  I'll be okay.”

She holds a glass of water to my lips and patiently helps me take a sip.  “Are you sure, dear?”

I nod and sit up, taking my own weight instead of leaning against Asra.  I don't yet want to put away the spread. There's something important there.  Something that got lost along with me within the stream of words. “I’m alright.”

Nadia sighs, sounding relieved.  She’s echoed by Asra and, I think, by the ghost.

Asra rubs a hand along my arm.  He pulls away from me and lays down on his side.  He picks up Death and turns the card over slowly in his hands.  “A weighty card. It would have been the Count's favorite, if he had understood it.  Instead he commissioned paintings of himself as he thought he wanted to be, standing triumphant over death, even as the entire time he was cowering from it.”

_“You impertinent ass!”_

There’s a rush of cold air, and Asra is jerked roughly away from me.  All the lights in the room, flare then go out. Nadia grabs my arms and pulls me close to her.  A mad cackle and then the room is lit by the faint glow limning Lucio’s ghost and the bright lines of sigil marked on Asra’s chest.  Asra’s flipped over onto his back. The ghost leaning over him no longer resembles a goat, but Lucio himself. He’s kneeling with one knee of Asra’s chest, his single arm pinning one arm above Asra’s head.

_“You’ve always been impossible!  Impossible to love. Impossible to hate!”_

Asra isn’t fighting back.  He looks slightly stunned, eyes darting from Lucio, to me, to the brilliant mark on his chest.  It’s the same as the one on Julian’s throat. Finally, he looks up. His laugh is an eerie echo of the ghost’s own.  “And you’ve always been so very, very easy to hate.”

_“How dare you judge me with that brand on your chest!  All high and mighty with your talk of not fearing death.  Did you know it would work, Asra? Did you? Or were you just gambling with the lot of us?”_

Nadia’s hands tighten around my shoulders as Asra simply smirks at the ghost hovering over him.  “Gamble with you? Why would that bother me?”

_“And the rest?  Noddy? Jules? You’re cold bastard there, Asra.  Was he not broken enough for you? I never would have treated him that badly.”_

Asra turns his head, looking away from Lucio’s ghost, away from all of us, impacted by the statement.  He clenches his hands into fists without a verbal response, and I hear the word he said to Julian in that dream which was the truth: _did you want me to hurt you more?_

_“But look what it got you.  Your little darling by your side.  Does she know how you did it? Who gave you that damned book?  Told you how to use it?”_

Silence.  Then Asra starts to shake, beginning with sobs and rapidly turning to mirthless laughter.  Lucio lets go of his hand and straightens, looking down at Asra with nothing but confusion on his translucent features.  Asra’s laughs become unhinged giggles, then back to sobs as he scrambles back away from the ghost.

“What did I get?  Me?” He clutches one hand to his chest, nails scraping at the luminescent lines on his skin.  “More than you, at least.” He coughs. “We’re all fools here, Montag, but you might just be the biggest.” 

Lucio shrieks in rage.  _“You think this is the end for me!  This! No, no. All that - that was only a prelude.  I’ll be back soon. And you’ll understand then you little piece of shit!”_

The lights in the room flare again, then, with a loud snap, the Count’s ghost is gone.  Asra drops back against the pillows at the head of the bed, hand clutched weakly over his heart, laughing again.

Nadia lets go of my shoulders, and I scramble to him.  “Asra?” I take both his hands in mine. “Asra, are you okay?”

“I’m -”  He pulls his hands free of my mine, only to grab one again and press my palm to his chest.  His other hand cups the back of my head and pulls me against him. “I’m okay, I am.” I’m not sure which of us he’s trying to convince.  “It’s fine.” His lips press against the top of my head. “I’m fine.”

China clinks as Nadia picks up the cups that have been dropped on the bed and sets them aside.  Her face is still calm when I glance over at her, but she’s worried enough that lines have appeared around her mouth along with the ones around her brow.  “I think we’re done here. At least for the time.” She takes another drink of wine, straight from the bottle and collects my cards, which have somehow been spared any of the spilt wine.  Stretching across the bed, she touches Asra’s shoulder gently. “Come, dears. This has been . . . enough.”

Between the two of us, we manage to coax Asra out of the room.  He’s steady enough on his fit, but still holding me close, and laughing at unequal intervals.  Portia meets us in the hallway, blue eyes wide. “Milady! What happened? You told me not to come in, and I didn’t but -”

Nadia raises a hand.  “We’re fine. You did the right thing, dear.  I’m not sure how he would have responded to yet another guest.”  She groans and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Out of all the ways I envisioned that going wrong, I could not have predicted that.”  

Asra seems to snap out of whatever mood he’s in.  He keeps a hand on my shoulder steadying himself. “Nadi, I’m sorry, your headaches.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about me, Asra.”  She touches his shoulder gently. “It’s imperative now that we try to understand just what Lucio intends to accomplish.  I shall return to my journals and hope my prior self noted something of importance. You and Dema should continue with any other investigations you had planned.  Portia will see to anything you need. Excuse me.”

She paces away from us and down the steps.  Portia looks around the doorway to the bedroom and exclaims at the mess of split wine and plates on the bed.  “What happened here?”

“Lucio.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t around to clean up when he was alive.”

Asra lets go of my shoulder and chuckles.  “I don't know, from what I've heard you might have been able to whip him into shape.  Dema, are you still going with Ilya?”

“Yes, are you?”

“I’m fine.  I’ll go by the shop, as we discussed earlier, then return here this evening.   Tell Faust.” He kisses my forehead. “Take care, dear heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all the lovely people who are sticking with me through this. I love you. That is all. :)


	28. Ready for the Worst Before the Damage is Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from MSMR, "Hurricane"

Portia and I take the portal from the Count's wing to the garden.  She pulls me back to my feet after we tumble through and hustles me through the hedge maze to her cottage while I clutch at the scant robe and hope that none of the variations on the theme of embodied creepiness that passes for a court are flitting about the gardens.  

“Don’t worry,” Portia reassures me.  “I grabbed some of your clothes earlier.  It’s just past mid afternoon. I think you and Ilya have some time left to search for this dungeon he’s talking about.  Is Asra okay? He looked pretty rattled.”

“He’ll be alright.”  I hope that’s true. I’ve never seen him as shaken as he was by the accusations Lucio’s ghost threw at him, but if there is one truth I do know about Asra, it’s that he does well enough on his own.  I wish I knew more about what was behind those accusations. The one I am confident about is that the book Lucio referenced is the same one I found in the library.  

When we reach her cottage, Portia closes the door behind her.  Julian looks up from the book he's reading at her kitchen table: a paperback with a garish block print cover promising thrills, chills, and romance!  Good - he deserves a bit of escapism. Even if I’m about to spoil what little had managed. Pepi is in his lap, and Faust is politely, but intently, guarding him from the middle of the table.

“Whew.”  Portia wipes the inside of her arm across her face.  “Okay, kids, get into dungeon searching clothes. I’m going to do a spin through my garden and take out some weeds.  Pepi?”  

The cat stretches in Julian’s lap, claws catching in the fabric of his trousers, and licks his chin affectionately before sauntering off after Portia into the garden.  The door closes behind them, and I’m left alone with Julian and Faust. I let out the breath I’ve been holding since I left Lucio’s wing and sink onto Portia’s comfortably worn out sofa.  Just a minute or two to catch up with myself would be welcome.  

“Are you okay?”  Julian gets up from the table and walks to me, touching one hand to my cheek.  “You look like you just saw a ghost.”  

I look up at him biting my lower lip.  I think I could manage having 'just' seen a ghost.  Seeing a ghost, having the cards take my voice from me again, all those things Lucio had said to Asra, from treating Julian poorly to gambling with people's lives.  The question of who had given him that book. It must be the one that I found, the one that Asra is so loath to explain. All of that together is pushing at the limits of what I care to handle in a single day.

“You did just see a ghost!  Are you alright? You’re not hurt are you?”  His thumb brushes over my right temple. “Is your head okay?”

“I’m okay.  Asra, Nadia, and I coaxed the Lucio monster out of the woodwork, but he couldn’t really do anything.”  

Julian starts to say something, and I hold up one hand to try to stave off his concern.  If I let him, he'll use fretting over me as an excuse to not go looking for dungeon level lab.  And if I didn't interrupt it now, I'd let him - only be too happy to escape from that task myself.  Very, very happy.

And they'll be time enough later to try to get Asra to explain why he and Julian had matching, glowing marks and what exactly Lucio's tirade had meant.  Julian probably would dismiss the first into the category of “magicky things” that he doesn’t even want to understand, and as for the second, I’m afraid raising the specter of whatever Asra did to him to earn so much scorn from the ghost of a cruel man will shatter the fragile alliance the two of them have formed.

I pause to scratch Faust’s head.  “Asra wants you to meet him at the shop.  Thanks for keeping Julian here.” She flicks her tongue against my hand.  I pick her up and set her in an open window; she’ll find her way from there.  Julian eyes me from across the table when I turn back around. Damn robe. “Portia said something about having gotten some of my clothes.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, those, I just can’t quite -”  He looms over me for a moment then I find that I’m scooped up in his arms.  “Remember where she put them.”

“Julian.”

He nudges aside the neckline of the robe with his nose.  “Damn, you smell good, I mean, um, better than usual.”

“Julian.  We don’t have time right now.”  I grab his hair and pull his face away from my neck.  “Dungeon. Plague cure. Prove innocence. Remember?”

“Right. Right.”  I feel just as disappointed as he sounds.  He sets me back down and indicates two piles of clothes in the armchair.  One is the old blouse and patched pants that I wore to the palace in the first place, as perfect for searching through dusty corridors as the fancy clothes Portia has been shoving at me are for lounging about like some pretty ornament.  I shuck off the gauzy robe and start dressing, pausing to scold Julian again about the time when he stops to stare at me.

He manages to get into the uniform Portia has borrowed for him, even if I have to stop him from leaving the buttons on the shirt undone and knot the cravat that goes with the ensemble.  She's also left three wigs out to cover up his hair and eye. He surveys the wigs, picks up a blonde one with a pink ribbon, and looks at me helplessly.

“The blonde wig is out.”  I take it from him and set it aside.

“Oh?”

“I don’t tend to care for blonde hair on men.”  I didn’t care for blonde hair on men even before seeing Lucio’s portraits with all the eyes ripped out.  I  _ decidedly do not _ care for it now.  Something about the brown one bothers me as well.  The black wig is a bit shorter and sleeker; it’ll go better with the lines of his face if I can get it to cover his right eye.  “Sit. I'll get your hair sorted.”

I pull his hair back, tying it with one of Portia's ribbons and kiss his forehead.  “Have any ideas about where to start looking?”

“Lucio's wing - maybe?  I don't know. Did you three make him angry?  Asra always had a real knack for pissing him off.”

“Well, he hasn't lost that ability.  That's for sure.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“It's questions all the way down.  Lucio said Asra gambled with his life, and Nadia's, and yours.  Others too, I think. What was he doing?”

Julian's hands close around my arms, thumbs running over the soft skin on the inside of my wrists.  The murderer's mark is stark on the back of the left, and I want to stop everything and find a spell to take it away.  Not a glamour, something permanent. “I don't remember. I guess it has, uh, something to do with that dinner, ritual thing that he had Muriel drag me to.”

“There's more.  The mark on your neck.  Asra has the same one on his chest.”

Julian lets go of me and sits back in the chair, touching his fingers to his neck.  “Huh, so he placed some similar kind of spell on himself?”

“That's not his work, I'd recognize it.”

“Who else could it be, Dema?”

“I don't mean that he didn't have anything to do with it - with them.  But they aren't his magic. At least, not directly.” I lean my forehead against his, still craving human touch and warmth after another encounter with Lucio’s ghost.  “I wish I understood. Hell, maybe I did it? Everyone we know to be involved has scrambled memories. Mine most of all.”

His fingers move from his neck to the side of my head, and he brushes a thumb over my cheekbone.  “I don't think it was you,  _ dorogaya _ .”

“How do you know?”

“Hunch.  But a solid one.”

How can I argue with that when I just spent a week insisting that Julian hadn’t committed the crime with no evidence of my own?  I can’t.

“Anyway, I'm not in any kind of rush to go to Lucio's wing again, unless you think it's likely that this dungeon entrance is there.”  I work the wig over his hair and tuck the stray curls into it, arranging the bangs to cover his eye. “Lucio seems to have worn himself out, but prodding him anymore strikes me as an awful idea."

“We can check the library again.  There might be something else at my desk that will give us a hint.”

“I much prefer that.”  And I can retrieve that book and Asra’s notes.  I’m more likely to get an answer from those than directly from him.

Portia raps sharply on the door and enters.  “Are you two ready? Oh, Ilya, you look practically respectable!”

He hangs his head and sighs theatrically.  “So it is that bad.”

“Oh, hush.  Portia, can you let us into the library again?”

She jangles her keys happily.  “I got you. Come on, Ian.”

“Ian?  Really?  That’s my fake name.  Couldn't it be something stronger like Vladislav, or Boris, or-”

“It's Ian, and you'll answer to it,”  Portia says finally as she pushes him out the door.

* * *

Portia closes the library door behind us.  I go straight to the pile of pillows where I had left the book of blood magic spells.  It’s still there, though I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had disappeared either in Asra’s hand or under its own volition. 

Julian paws through his old desk, even though I'm not sure what he could have missed in the prior times he’s been through the drawers and pigeon holes.  It doesn’t take him long to give up and join me under the window. While I'm thumbing through the book again, he hovers behind me, trailing his fingers over my back and shoulders, settling on my hips.

“We were interrupted the last time we were here.”  He leans over my shoulder to kiss my cheek, my neck, then nibbles at the lob of my ear.  I can't stop myself from laying back against him.

“How do you ever find space in that lovely head of yours for thoughts that don’t have something to do with sex, Ilya?”

“Mmm, around you it's difficult.”  He steals another kiss, and I dart my hand up to swat him on the cheek.  The tactic backfires badly, earning me a little chuckle and teeth scraping against the side of my neck.  Giving in would be so much easier.   

“Julian, if we prove that you're innocent, we'll have all the time in the world to make out, fuck, drink ourselves silly, fight the biggest asshole in the bar, but if we don't . . .”  I don't want to consider the completion of not finding evidence of his innocence. I turn around, grab him, and press myself close to his chest, close enough to hear his heart beating.  One breath, then two.  

“Shh, shh.  We know I didn't kill Lucio, at least.  The rest will fall where it may.”

“The Countess thinks you're innocent now.”  That helps. At least, a little, even if she's set events into motion that are now out of her control.  I close the book and set it aside. Not in my lap. I really don’t want to touch it more than I have to.  Just who had guided Asra’s hand to the damn thing. The wrongness practically rolled off of it in waves.

“She does?”

“She was doubting that you did it anyway.  And Lucio basically confirmed it.”

“Basically?”

“It wasn't precisely 'Devorak didn't kill me.'  Something like 'Jules is the most innocent of all of you.'”

“Huh.”  He folds his arms around my shoulders and snuggles his head in the crook of my neck.  “And that was enough for Nadia?”

“That and she found some of her old journals.  She’s putting back together a good portion of what happened three years ago.  And, um, actually she figured out that I’ve been trying to help you.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me.  I told you that she’s wicked clever.  You’re not in trouble with her, are you?”

“No.  I don’t think so.”  I reach up and ease my hand through his hair.  “I’m also not sure that she knows how to stop things now that they’re in motion.  We may just need to get you out of the city.”  

“I still, though, I still feel like there’s something horrible that I’m going to find.  And I have to find the plague cure, Dema. I have to.”

“Can’t you find it and then leave?”

A heavy sigh as he settles more of his weight against me, and I’m not entirely who is comforting whom, or if it particularly matters.  “I don’t know. I have so many questions.”

I let him go without looking at his face and force myself to turn back to the book.  “Think back then. What else was in here three years ago?”

“Well, umm, Asra had made this nest of cushions.  And he had books piled all around her. A miniature fortress basically.  I was always tripping over them when I went . . .” He stops speaking suddenly and walks to a shelf on the other side of the fingertips lingering on a book.  “Dema, I think I've got it.” 

He tips a series of books out from the shelf: red leather with gold embossing, black fabric, and one bound in green.  Instead of falling to the ground, they trigger some mechanism built into the shelf, which swings slowly out into the room.

Cold, stagnant air rolls out the revealed passage and into the library.  I tuck the book into my bag and join Julian in front of the doorway, curling one hand around his fingers and summoning a ball of light to the other.  “This is a charming entryway for an office.” 

“Umm yeah, my old boss, Valdemar.”  His voice shakes, and he coughs nervously, as if saying the name will cause them to manifest.  To be fair, based on what I’ve had the misfortune to experience of them, they just might. “They had very specific taste in decorating.”

I step into the passage, pulling him after me and hoping that the hidden door doesn't swing shut behind us.  Julian's hand tightens around mine, and he holds the other out, pushing back the cobwebs that have formed. Either no one has visited this underground laboratory in the intervening years, or there was another entrance hidden somewhere in the palace.  The passage slopes down for ages, descending past the cellar levels of the palace.

“This was all supposed to be secret.  Valdemar found some old crypt, cleaned out the skeletons - or most of the skeletons - and renovated it.”  He shudders and stops. “I don't remember why we had to be so secretive. I’m not . . . I’m not sure that I want to.”

“It'll be worth it if we find some evidence to prove to everyone that you're innocent of the Count’s murder.”  I’m not sure if the statement is for me or for him. I feed a little more power into the ball of light, increasing its brightness, and squeeze Julian’s hand, trying to reassure him.

“Ah.”  He smiles ruefully.  “What if I find that I'm guilty of something worse?  Whatever happened here. I think there's a reason I forgot about it.  But, if I can find the cure for the plague again, maybe that will be worth whatever else I find.  You’ve seen the Lazaret in the harbor?”

A shiver runs through me as he says the name that's been given to the island moldering under the shadow of a smokestack.  It wasn’t always called that, before the plague, it had another name, one that has been swept into the ashbin of history. Certainly, it was only a draft of cold air, but I step closer to him, seeking some more tangible of reassurance from his presence.

“The city couldn't handle the dead and the dying.  We thought that maybe if we separated the sick from the healthy it would slow the spread.  And then, there was no space left to buy the dead, and not enough people to handle the bodies.  That's when they built the crematoriums.” His voice trails off as his hand starts to shake in mine.  “You have to raise the temperature frighteningly high to completely incinerate a human body. A regular fire just -”

The old, familiar red flares behind my eyes and pain shoots through my head.  The light I've summoned snaps out, plunging us into abysmal darkness. Before I can stumble to the floor, Julian's hands are under my arms. “Dema!”  He pulls me against him. I listen to his heartbeat, pay attention to the feeling of his hands running over my back, and take a couple of slow breaths to recenter myself.  It’s harder in the dark, nothing to count but breaths and heartbeats and those are fragile, finite things. I don't have time to fall into a panic from a past I don’t remember.  Not right now. Not when we might be able to do something to make the present just a little better.

When I’m able, I summon the light back, and Julian hunches over, hands on my shoulders, inspecting my face.  

“Are you okay?”

“Let's just find your old office so we can get out of here.”

He presses his lips together with concern but takes my hand again, and we continue down the passageway.  It ends in front of a rusty cage built around lift down to an even lower level. The lift is barely large enough to hold a single person.  A tarnished lock binds a chain holding the cage closed. Julian tenses beside me, tracing his fingers over a small plaque set over the lock.

“This . . . This is an old nightmare.”  He pulls the key from his pocket and reads the plaque aloud.  “Bloody hands may turn the key. Know the weight of your sins, and enter.”

He's gone paler than usual, more than I can attribute to the dim lighting.  I take the key from him. “It's just a sign to mess with you. Besides, you could be overestimating the weight of your sins.  Think of it that way. Let me try.”

The key fits the lock, but no matter how I twist and wiggle it, I can't get the mechanism to turn.  Perhaps that isn’t so surprising. If anyone is blithely unaware of their sins, it’s me, more of the unknown variety than the known.  Julian's hand closes over mine. “I think, Dema, that it has to be me.” 

His fingers linger on mine as he takes the key from me.  When he turns it, the grate in front of the cage screeches open.  “Bloody hands,” he repeats softly. Unable to do anything else, I wrap my arms tightly around his waist and press my face into his back.  “Whatever I am guilty of - whatever it is that I’ve done - it's down there.”  

My heart sinks into my stomach, as I try and fail to think of any way to fight this.  Just flee. We could flee, still, there’s time. “Don’t go, Ilya. There’s got to be something else, we can -”

He pulls away from me and steps into the lift.  The cage door swings shut behind him, separating us.  “Time to face the music.” He's forcing a brave smile, but his hands are shaking.

“Julian.”  I close my hand over one of his.  The iron bars of the cage bite with years of cold.  “At least don't go down there alone.”

He presses his forehead against the bars. “I wouldn't have gotten this far without you.”

I reach out a finger and touch it to his cheek before sliding my fingers around to the back of his neck, drawing his face down, closer to me, until I can stand on my toes and kiss him through the gate.  His eyes are despondent when we break the kiss, and part of me knows that he won't let me go with him.  

“Wait just a moment.”  I rummage through my pockets and find the dichroic glass charm that I had bought the other day intending to give it to Asra.  It will serve my purpose now though. I hold it close to me infusing it with magic and warmth. When I hand it to Julian, it's glowing with soft violet light. 

“ _ Solnishka _ .”  He takes the charm from me and quickly presses his lips to my fingertips, before looping the leather thong around his neck.  “Don't stand here in the dark waiting. I want a future now, one with you. I promise I’ll see you soon.”

He throws a lever and the contraption groans back to life.  Softly the lift begins to lower into the gaping pit below. I shout after him, knowing he’ll hear, even if he won't listen, “Julian, send the lift back up for me.”

He's not sending the lift back up.  I know it, but I wait anyway, pacing back and forth, whispering the words ‘soon’ and ‘future’ as if they are the incantation for a spell that will keep him safe.  I can't gauge the time without any natural light, but afternoon must be passing into evening.  

“Dammit, Julian,”  I tell in the general direction of the lift.  “You don't have to do everything by yourself.”

“Dema!”  A voice - Portia's voice - calls from the passageway.  

“Portia?”

She's bustling - because she’s always bustling too much to be to stay in one place for any real amount of time at all, and that must be the kind of habit that one gets into - through the tunnel, carrying a lit torch.  I shy back from it. She looks at me sheepishly. “Sorry, Ilya mentioned something about you not liking open flames, but I needed a light. You can put it out if you want.”

I do, feeding the energy from the torch into my summoned light at the same time, to illuminate a slightly larger circle around the two of us.

“Where’s Ilya?  I came back to the library and both of you were gone, and that hidden door was open.  Even I didn't know about this passage.”

“There's a lift down to an even lower level.”

“Oh!”  Portia walks over to the lift.  I send the light orb with her. She reads the inscription.  “I bet my brother took one look at that and decided to go it on his own, didn't he?  It's just the sort of thing . . . Dema, are you okay?”

“I . . . I just . . .”  The panic that has been building in me breaks when faced with her kind blue eyes, and I begin babbling to her.  “He said he'd see me soon and that he wants a future and now I can't stop thinking that something is going to go horribly wrong and he’s not going to come back, or he’s going to come back and do something incredibly stupid, and I won’t be able to stop him, and . . .”

Portia wraps her arms around me and holds me close.  She’s soft and warm and  _ still _ \- just letting me breathe for a few minutes before she tries to get me to talk in anything akin to a comprehensible fashion.  “How long have you been standing here?”

“I don't know.  There’s no real light, and it’s cold, and -”

“Shhh... shh... Come on, sweetie.  Let's go back up to the palace. Ilya said he wanted a future?  That's good, that's optimistic of him. I bet he already found whatever he needed and then stumbled into a different way out and he's back at my place spoiling Pepi.”

When we reach the library, Portia glances out the window and the rapidly fading sunlight and curses.  “Damn, it’s later than I thought, and the Countess is still expecting you for dinner. I’ve got to get you ready.  Come on, there’s nothing for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the stress might be starting to get to Dema. But then, I'd be a bit worried if the stress wasn't getting to her.
> 
> Heads up: I've got two more chapters to post for this part, and I'm going to break and continue with a new work (linked into a series), as this is starting to get a bit unwieldy. I knew it was going to expand. I didn't realize exactly how much of a behemoth it was going to turn into.... 
> 
> Thanks for reading and sticking with me!


	29. It's Easier Not to Be Wise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Live, "I Alone"

_ Four years ago. _

 

I had just shut the chickens into their coop for the evening and reactivated the spell around the perimeter of their run.  Last week I caught a thief making off with two of my hens. Unfortunately, not before he snapped their necks.

The thief was hungry.  His kids were hungry. One was sick, and his grannie insisted that chicken soup would help, would make the child better.  He wasn't evil, wasn't lying; he was just desperate. People were these days. So I let him go. With the chickens. It wasn’t as though I could have brought myself to eat them anyway. 

But anyone who tried that again was in for a nasty surprise.  Not fatal. Just nasty. The kind of thing that would make you think twice about doing  _ that  _ again, and probably warn your friends and neighbors not to either.  Better if they just took eggs from the basket I left on the front step.  After all, I had more than I could possibly eat on my own.

I paused by the bed of herbs and knelt to pull some weeds that I had missed earlier in the day.  The herbs are wonderfully fragrant, a tiny bubble of serenity in the madness of the city: horehound, lemon balm, rosemary, oregano, chamomile, and catnip.

The backdoor of the shop swung open with a squeal where I had forgotten to oil them.  There’s only a handful of people that could be. I stood and turned, brushing the dirt from my hands on the knees of my heavy canvas work trousers.  

Dirt and ash covered Julian from his head to his feet.  He hunched over, leaning back against the stonewall, arms folded tight around his chest.  “Here you are.”

“Here I am.”  I wasn’t expecting to see him today.  Something was very wrong. Very, very wrong.  When I touched his shoulders, he sank down onto his knees and buried his face against my chest.  I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, just, um, can I stay here tonight?” 

“Darling . . .”  I tilted his head back and pushed his hair out of his eyes.  “You don’t have to ask that.”

“I know, I just . . .”

“Yes, Julian.”  I ran a hand over his forehead, pressed my lips to the spot between his eyebrows then kissed his nose.  “You can stay.”

With a heavy sigh, he slumped against me.  He’s still folded in on himself. I lean over him, running my hands over his shoulders.  “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

“There’s still some light.  Can we sit out here?”

“Yeah, yeah, we can do that.”  I settled down on the ground beside him, back against the warm stones of the shop wall.  He rearranged himself so that his head was in my lap. I played with his hair and watched the sun set behind the rooflines.  When it was finally dark, Julian picked himself up and offered me his hand. He pulled me to my feet, then picked me up for a quick kiss.  

“Sorry.”  He set me back down on my feet.  “Forgot that earlier.”

“It’s okay, Ilyusha.”

I took his hand and pulled him through the shop and up the stairs, activating the lamps in the apartment as I went.  I settled him at the table and dampened a clean dishrag at the sink. Sitting down beside him on the bench I dabbed at his face, wiping off the worst of the grim.

“Where’d you get this dirty?”

“The Lazaret.”

“What did they have you doing out there?”  The palace had been shuffling Julian into random tasks, something about missing paperwork on an official license.  He had mentioned more than once that he actually preferred it that way. Kept him from what they were officially doing, and made it easier to get away.

“Uh, I got volunteered to help with surveying.”

“Surveying.”

“They ran out of room for the bodies.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, so the engineers are supposed to design and build crematoriums.”

“That’s . . .”  Cremation was the traditional method of disposing of the dead in more than one country, but it wasn’t accepted practice in Vesuvia.  Entombment in slightly raised crypts was the custom in this boggy city of reclaimed land and canals.

“Uhuh.  So, someone realized that I’m good at math.  I’m supposed to help with the calculations. There’s more involved than you’d think.”

“Ilya -”

He took the rag from me and wiped at his hands.  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Okay.  Um, have you eaten anything today?”

“No, I came straight here from the docks.  But, uh, I’m not really hungry.”

I cupped my hand around his jaw and ran my thumb over his bottom lip.  “Alright. You’re going to drink some water at least. And I’m going to draw you a bath.”  

I put a glass of water, cooled with a quick spell, in front of him and dragged the wooden tub out from underneath the counter and over the spigot I have tapped through the wall.  Catching rain had become a popular solution to the issue of tainted water in the city, and having set up an elaborate system a few years back to keep my garden watered, I had been ahead of the game.  Placing a barrel higher on the roofline, adding several layers of silk for filter, and rerouting a pipe to provide water in the apartment hadn't been a difficult task (not hard, just troublesome), and made it much easier to cook (well, try to) and keep myself and the apartment clean.  I dipped my hand in the water and raised the temperature to a soothing level. Then another couple degrees because Julian is Julian, and the hotter the better as far as he’s concerned.

Julian had obediently drunk the water; although, I suspected he would have preferred some of the whiskey I had in the cabinet.  Maybe in a bit, if I can get him to eat something. “Okay, sweetheart, strip.”

He raised an eyebrow at me in a familiar expression, and I felt my shoulders drop in relief.  I would have really worried if a command to strip hadn't gotten  _ that _ look.  But there was none of his usual coyness as he divested himself of his filthy clothes (I’d need to wash those well, but he has some clean things stashed here.) and climbed into the water.  The tub was really too small. His knees poked out of the water. But it would do.

I retrieved another wash rag, a couple of towels from the cabinet and paused to smell the remaining bars of soap I had stashed away before choosing one scented with clary sage.  I always preferred it to lavender to reduce stress and improve moods. Soap and washcloths in hand, I kneel down beside the tub. Julian had already poured water over his hair. He started to take the soap from me.  I pulled my hand back and shook my head.  

“No, I think you need to be touched right now.”

“I -”  He started to protest, then leaned back with a sigh.  “You're right.”

“Of course I'm right.”  I kissed his cheek and dipped my hands in the warm water working up enough of a lather to wash his hair.  I took my time, massaging his scalp and watching with satisfaction as some of the tension eased from his face.  “Good boy, just relax for me, honey.” I could have kicked myself the first time I called him boy, but he had quite clearly liked it.  Even more, if good was prefixed to boy. 

I ran my hands along his neck, then took my time working on his shoulders, before sliding my hands down his chest.  He let his head loll to one side, leaning against my arm. I almost felt bad about asking him to lean forward so I could get his back, but his contented sigh as I kneaded the tension from his muscles banished those thoughts.  I scooped up water in my hands and sluiced it over his shoulders and back, rinsing away the last bit of the soap. Pressing a kiss to the top of his spine, I spoke quietly.

“Feeling better?”

“Much.”  As if to confirm his statement, he leaned back and lifted a hand to touch my cheek, arching a lecherous eyebrow at me.  “You should get in too.”

“I cleaned up earlier.  Besides, there's no way you're going to be able to fold yourself up enough that there'll be space for me.”

He pulled his knees up to his chest and affected a pout.  “Is that a challenge?”

“It . . . Oh, good grief.”  I started to undo the buttons on my blouse.  “If this ends up with an inch of water over the kitchen floor you're cleaning it up.”  Nevermind that it would be quicker to just gather up the water with magic. Actions have consequences.

“It's a deal.”

He practically purred as I let the blouse fall away.  I took more time stripping out of my pants and underclothes, letting him watch, letting him wait.  

I stepped into the tub and knelt down, facing Julian and keeping an eye on the level of water.  I don't actually want to clean it up. Julian shifted around and pulled me against his chest. 

“Told you I could make it work.”

I glanced back.  He had one leg out of the water, knee on the edge of the tub and foot tucked at the small of my back.  “That's debatable.” The water had cooled off. I closed my eyes and raised the temperature by a few degrees before settling against Julian's chest.  I could just fit my hands on either side of his waist.

“That's a good trick.  See this isn't bad.”

It wasn’t not bad, not at all.  He ran his hands over my back, fingertips slick with soap.  Then the rougher texture of a washcloth. A little moan of pleasure escaped my mouth and Julian laughed softly, clearly pleased with himself.  He spent far more time than necessary, working over my shoulder blades and then slowly down my back. At my waist, he set the washcloth aside, over the edge of thin, dripping on the floor, and continued with just his hands, fingers curling around my ass, kneading insistently.  I wiggled my hips happily as his fingers dipped between my legs, then huff in discontent as they pulled away.

Julian kissed the top of my head and pushed back on my shoulders.  He drew his hands down over my collarbones, hands lingering much longer than necessary on my breasts.  I closed my eyes as his thumbs circled my already tight nipples, moaning with pleasure. “Ilya.” His name was a gasp, and I had to grab his arms to steady myself.  When I opened my eyes, he's biting his bottom lip, open lust in his eyes.

“I, uh, think we better rinse off.”

“Yeah, uh.” I shook my head, breaking myself out of the temporary haze, and stood.  Julian rearranged himself, and then kissed the top of my thigh. I bit my own lip, thinking about how to most efficiently get from the water to the bed.  I had left a pail of water nearby for rinsing. I formed half of it into a bubble and levitated it over my head, before allowing it to burst over me, then do the same for Julian after he stood up from the bathwater.  The quickest way to get rid of said water was to manipulate it like I did the rinse water, snaking it across the room and into the sink. Then, extending a hand, I used a final bit of magic to pull the towels from the counter where I left them to into my grasp.  Julian stared at me in amazement as I wrap one around him.

“What is it?”

“I, uh, forget, sometimes, just how powerful you are.”

I stepped out of the now empty tub, rubbing my hair in the towel.  “Oh, honey, that's nothing.” I ran the towel over my back and bent down to dry off my legs.  Behind me, I hear Julian hastily going through the same motions, before he seized me and lifted me up against his still damp chest.  I laughed and tucked my head against his neck.

“Bedroom?”

“Bedroom.”

The figured for journey to the bedroom took much, much longer than it should, interrupted by stumbling over a carelessly tossed aside pair of boots, mad giggles, and Julian then picking me up and pressing me against the wall, working over my lips and neck with his mouth, while I clung to him with arms and legs both.  He let me tumble from his arms onto the bed, breathless from kisses and the laughter before those and knelt on the floor. “Right now I just want to touch every last inch of you.”

I sat upright, legs hanging off the side of the bed, and ran my hand over his hair.  It was getting long, nearly long enough to tie back, or braid. I smiled at the thought.  He'd look fetching in braids. He'd look fetching in anything, or just as he was at that moment - in nothing.

“I - please, can I?”  There was a touch more desperation in his voice - as if he somehow thought that there was some reality in which I would say no.  He played that game so prettily.

I pressed a finger against my chin and looked up and to the right, miming contemplation.  Julian groaned and leaned his head against my knee, looking up with pleading, hungry eyes.

“I'll be very, very good.”

“Very good?”

“Very.”

I pushed my fingers through his hair again, pushing the messy locks out of his face.  “Okay then, darling.”

He kissed my knee, then ran both hands along the tops of my thighs.  “Lay down.” he turned aside and pulled open the drawer in the bedside cabinet, rummaging through the things there.  I laid down on my stomach and peered over the edge of the bed. He had a vial of oil in each hand. I reached down and touched the one that held sweet almond oil with a mix of vetiver and rose.  

“That one.”

He undid the stopper and wafted the bottle under his nose.  “Oh, that is nice.”

“Mmhm.”  I folded my arms under my head.  “One of my favorites.” The mattress shifted as Julian climbed on and straddled my back.  His hands, slick with oil smoothed over my shoulders, and he pressed a kiss to the back of my neck.  I sighed as he worked down my spine, fingers just as clever as ever. “That feels really good, Ilya.”  

“I told you.” Another quick kiss on the back of my neck and then the mattress moved again.  His thumbs lingered at the small of my back, working at the spots that were forever sore. His hands kneaded at my buttocks for what could be construed as a gratuitously long time - were I not thoroughly enjoying it - before dressing down my thighs and calves.  When he picked up my right foot and started working on the instep, I groaned aloud.

“Found a sensitive spot?”

“That is, mmm -”  

He chuckled.  “I'll have to rub your feet more often if you make noises like that.”

“It’s like I didn’t even realize they were aching.  I’m just so used to it.”

He picked up the other foot and I moaned again, burying my face in my arms.  I let him continue, making happy, little noises into my arms and praising him when I wasn’t too lost in the sensations.  He grabbed my waist and flipped me over, working back up my legs and adding in teasing little kisses to the inside of my thighs, a playful, taunting nuzzle where they met, then soft lips working up my abdomen, hands lingering on my breasts.  He straddled my waist, cock half erect, brushed thumbs over my cheekbones, finding my shoulders then my right arm.

I kept my left arm tucked against my chest, out of habit more than anything.  The scars on my right arm had faded over the past five years- in the right light, they weren't even that noticeable.  My left was . . . still a mess. Old scars and new ones. No one missed it entirely, but if I keep it out a lover's direct line of sight, most would ignore it.  At least, I didn't have to see disgust or pity in their eyes. Or hastily find my clothes and walk out when they asked if I ‘wanted to talk about it.’

I hated it when they asked that.

Julian kissed the fingers of my right hand then massaged each digit individually.  I groaned in relief and closed my eyes. My hands were almost always aching these days.  It felt marvelous as his fingers worked down my arm then draped it back over my chest with another kiss to the back of my palm.  Marvelous enough that it didn't quite register that he had picked up my left arm until his lips were pressed to those fingertips.  

I snatched my hand back, clutching my arm to my chest.  Turning my face away, I closed my eyes tight. Julian paused and strokes my forehead and jaw for a moment.  I turned into his touch but didn't open my eyes back up, letting his thumb brush across my lower lip. One hand still touching my face, he slid his thumb under my left hand and wrapped his fingers around mine.  I fight him for a moment, then let him raise my arm again.

“Look at me.”  The hand that wasn't holding mine paused, just to the side of my chin.  “Dema, please.”

I opened my eyes slowly, scared to see the expression on his face.  Keeping his eyes on mine, he very deliberately kissed the inside of my left wrist.  “You are the most precious thing in the world to me,  _ solnishka _ .  All of you.”  Still holding my hand firmly, he trailed the fingers of his free hand down the inside of my arm to my elbow.  I studied his expression looking for some sign that betrayed something I didn't want from him, but there was only acceptance.  No expectation to perform a role: be it distressed damsel or hardened survivor. No demand that I explain. Just acceptance.  

* * *

The sun was brilliant the next day.

I picked a mess of green beans from the garden in the late morning and roped Julian into sitting with me on the back step to string and break them.

“What are these called?”  I’d been having him teach me bits and pieces of his own language.

“These?”  He held up one, then snapped the ends off, tossing them aside to the chickens who were crowded around us, pecking at the discarded bits.  “ _ Zyelyonaya fasol’. _ ”

“And what do I call the hens?”

“ _ Kuritsi. _ ”  My large friendly rooster butted his elbow, and he slipped the manipulative bird an entire bean.  “But this fellow is a  _ petukh _ .”  He looked back at me, grey eyes glimmering with some idea that clearly made him very happy, and it was so rare to see him truly happy.  “I’ll, um, teach you something else.”

“Oh?”

He set aside his bowl of beans and moved closer to me.  “Yeah.  _ Ya. _ ”

“ _ Ya. _ ”  I repeated it back, even though I recognized the word for I and the pronunciation thereof has never been a problem for me.

“ _ Tebya _ .”

“ _ Ya tebya . . . _ ” I you - the word order wasn’t always what I expected.

“ _ Lyublyu.  Ya tebya lyublyu _ .”

“ _ Ya tebya lyublyu. _ ”  I was fairly certain that I had made the consonants too hard again.  “What does that mean?” 

He took the bowl from my lap and set it on the step before pulling me close to him.  Brushing my hair aside, he whispered in my ear. “I love you.”

“Ilya.”

His lips pressed against the side of my jaw.  “It’s okay . . . if you, uh, don’t want to say it back.  I just wanted you to know.”

“It’s not that.”  I lifted my hand to his face.  “Listen, if we're going to do this, you need to know.  The other day - those few days - that wasn't a one off.”  The days after . . . the days where I had lost myself entirely in rambling and nightmares.  I ran my right hand over my left arm. “This wasn't a one off. I'm . . . I have a disease . . . in my head.  I'm fine sometimes, a decent amount of the time - like now, but sometimes - maybe for months, my mind runs, and I can't stop it, and I can't stop myself.  Or, the opposite, I just . . . lose myself for days, weeks at a time. And I don't know why. I don't understand it, and I can't do much about it.” I looked away from him.  “I'm not an easy person to love.”

“Dema.”  He grabbed my arm and pulled me into his lap, wrapping me up in his arms.  “It's okay. I can love you. I do love you.”

“You say that now.”

“So it might not be easy.  I'll do it anyway. We'll manage.”

I leaned against him and let him play with my hair.  He caught the motion as I started fidgeting with the ring of Asra’s that I was still wearing.

“You still love him.”

“Yes.  You knew that.  When this started.”

“I know.”  He rested a hand on my waist.  “What will you do if he comes back?”

“When he comes back.  He always comes back. I - talk it out, I guess.  We've never hidden anything. But this is different than any of the lovers he or I have had before.”

“How so?”

“Because, my darling -”  I reached out and cupped his jaw, running my thumb over his cheekbone.  “You're a lover I actually love.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sweetness for the bitter? 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	30. Tell Us What We’re Up Against

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from LP, "Up Against Me"

_ Present. _

 

When we reach the library, Portia glances out the window and the rapidly fading sunlight and curses.  “Damn, it’s later than I thought. I hoped we could run by my cottage. See if Ilya’s there. But, I’ve got to get you ready.  Come on, there’s nothing for it. Two of my milady's sisters arrived this afternoon for the masquerade, and she wasn't expecting them, it's a long story; anyway, you and Asra will be helping entertain Prakran royalty.  Don't panic, I've heard the court there is actually very easy going..."

She’s babbling, and her troubles don’t seem limited to Ilya’s heroic dramatics at the moment.  "Portia, I -”

“Come on, let’s get to your guest room before we’re any later.  I hope Asra made it back already.” She looks very distressed, nearly worried to tears, and she walks behind me, still talking, justifying herself to me in a way that is completely unnecessary.  "I didn't mean for anything awkward to happen. I only wanted Milady to have people around her that were on her side. Instead of those horrible courtiers."

“Portia, why are you worried about Nadia’s sisters arriving.”

“Well, um, you see -”  She closes the door of my guest room behind her.  “Milady didn’t exactly invite them. I did.”

“Why wouldn’t she have invited them?”

“Milady has issues with her sisters.  I don’t know why. The two I’ve met are really nice.”

I put a hand on her shoulder, trying, probably badly to offer some reassurance.  “I think you did the right thing, Portia.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  Nadia needs help if she’s going to get the court back under her control.”  While I believe that Valerius will ultimately be on her side, I’m not convinced that the two of them could manage to clear out the monsters on their own.  Even that assumes that the Consul could be prodded out of his resignation to the status quo.

“I just hope she’s not too angry with me.  Let’s get you dressed.”

Fine, new clothes are laid out on the bed.  Portia helps me into the flowing silky garments, folding and tying a dizzying array of pleats and knots.  She takes my hair down and rebraids it, two small plaits on the side and loose in the back. The work seems to help her calm down somewhat, manageable as it is to make me into something halfway presentable to members of a foreign royal family.  She produces a small case from one of the drawers in the room and pauses in front of me.  

“Is it okay if I do your makeup?  I noticed you don’t usually wear any.”

“It’s fine.  Mostly, I’m just lazy.” 

Portia smiles.  “I won’t put a lot on you.  Just your eyes and lips, really.”  She’s quick, just as efficient as she is with everything else.  “There, you look ravishing.”

Asra, resplendent in the outfit Nadia has chosen for him, enters my room without knocking.  He’s in a blue tunic with dagged sleeves, worked round in an evil eye trim. A wide sash - tied over a full length, understated cream sarong - emphasizes his slim waist.  He arches his eyebrows pleasantly surprised by my appearance. “You look lovely.”

“Nadia does have good taste.”

“Milady certainly does.”  Portia tosses the clothes I was wearing into a basket for the laundry and set my bag, with the ponderously heavy book on a side table.  “Now, both of you are due in the ballroom. Go on. If I hear from Ilya, I’ll find a way to get word to you.”

As we walk through the palace hallways, I hurry to catch Asra up on what little Julian and I found.  I still don’t want to be overheard, but it’s easier now that we know that Nadia’s aware and on our side.  

Asra huffs as I finish.  “Of course, Ilya would decide to go alone and leave you to worry.”

I’m too much in agreement with the statement to defend Julian.  “Did you and Nadia decide what to do about Lucio’s ghost?”

“No, but I don’t think he’ll appear again until he’s stronger, so we should have a couple of days.  I  _ need _ to remember what happened in the ritual right before he died.”  He loops an arm around my waist. “But, right now, let’s be good guests and impress a handful of Prakran princesses.”

***

Three of Nadia’s sisters have already arrived for the Masquerade.  Dinner with them is a polite but informal affair, serving ourselves off a buffet set up at the side of the ballroom and lounging around a low table on comfortable couches and giving Nadia feedback on which delicacies should be prepared by the kitchens for the Masquerade.  Asra sprawls on his side and cradles me closely - perhaps possessively - against him, as he works his usual easy charm on the princesses. When we've finished, Nadia suggests that some music might be appropriate, and mayhaps, Asra and I would like to practice our dance steps.     

The four sisters couldn’t be more different.  Nasmira radiants calm and kindness, inviting conversation, in contrast to Nadia’s initial standoffish posturing.  If Nasmira is an avatar of the mother goddess, Nahara is her wrathful, powerful incarnation. And the most magnificently beautiful person I have ever laid eyes on.  Asra can deal with being second. Navra . . . I can’t figure out Navra, but right now she’s cavorting about me, snapping her fingers together to create a rhythm and spouting some nonsense about there being no steps to dancing.  I take Asra’s hands in mine in part to escape her . . . encouragement.  

He smiles and takes my left hand in his, right hand settling on my waist.  “This is nice. With everything going on, I haven’t been able to just spend time with you.  I’ll follow however you lead.”

I step forward, trying to catch the rhythm, and he steps back.  Deliberately or not, his step is not quite as deep as mine and we end up ever so incrementally closer together.  Princess Nasmira is skillfully plucking a complex tune from a stringed instrument. Nahara accompanies her, singing in a rich contralto voice.  Navra is still cavorting with the addition of a tambourine to fill in for her imaginary dance partner.

I spin myself along his outstretched arm and smile as he catches me.  His eyes, though half-lidded, track my every move and a peaceful smile that for once isn’t marred by anxiety or worry spreads across his face.  It’s a look that I don’t remember seeing on his face before; yet, something tells me it isn’t a new one. Just one that he’s kept carefully hidden from me over the last three years.

“How long have you looked at me like this?”

“Who knows?  By the time I noticed I was in too deep.  Dema -” He presses his cheek against mine.  “How long do you think we’ve known each other?”

“I don’t know.  Five years?” That accounts for the time I can remember, plus enough to explain his level of devotion.  Perhaps? Even disappearing as he does, Asra’s devotion is inexplicably high. Frighteningly so at times.

“Longer.”

Still swaying to the music, I turn so that my back is pressed against his chest, and his arm is crossed over my body.  I feel more contained like this, safer if we’re to discuss something like how many years of a relationship I can no longer recall.  “Six, then?”

“Still not enough.”

“Seven? Eight?”

“Longer.”  He laughs softly, breath warm against my ear.  “I haven’t felt this way in ages. I never want to let you out of my arms again.”

For a moment, I think about Julian and feel a pang of guilt for enjoying myself.  The temptation to just get lost in this moment with Asra is strong. But so is the memory of Julian’s tortured face when he said he wanted a future with me.  And I find I am holding both images - Julian caught in the dark of that crypt and Asra bathed in the light of the ballroom - together, intertwined in vibrating tension in my head.  The music slows, and I spin again in Asra’s arm, tucking my head against his shoulder.

“How did we meet?”

“Mmmm . . . it was the Masquerade actually.  I used to sell masks and trinkets Muriel and I made.  Your aunt let me set up beside her shop. And your family had sent you to live with her -”  I start at the idea of an entire family I’ve forgotten, and Asra’s arms tighten around me pulling me even closer to him.  “So that she could teach you to use your magic, and so she could . . . well, that’s really it. We met.”

“More than eight years ago.”  Twice the amount of time I can remember at all.  Thrice the amount of time I can remember coherently.  Some of my surprise and dis-ease must be conveyed by the subtle wave of tension that spreads through my body.

“We’ll get your memories back, somehow.”  He sounds a little sad as he says it, but this close to him, I don’t really care what he’s keeping back.  His arms around me, as we sway softly to the music, are what I need right now - comfort, reassurance that things will end up being okay.  Too much - too forceful - of a need for me to care about information missing and withheld.

The music slows to a halt and jangling applause replaces it.  I look up, feeling my cheeks heat. Navra, of course, the tambourine still in her hand.

“What raw intimacy, what passion!  What a dance! Ahh, where are we? Surely I am returning from a secret world between the two of you.”

Nadia graces us with one of her rare unguarded smiles from where she stands beside a pillar.  “You  _ are _ enchanting together.”

I glance back at Asra.  His cheeks are touched with embarrassment from the sudden shift from what felt like a private moment, to the friendly - but public - commentary, and he hides his face in my hair.  Nasmira comes to our rescue.

“Oh, it is warm in here.  Didi, why don’t we step out onto the veranda?”

“Yes!”  Navra is just as enthusiastic about this idea as she has been everything else.  “The owls are cooing, the moon is shining . . . the night is young!”

Asra’s hand on the small of my back is welcome as we step out of the ballroom and onto the wide veranda overlooking the gardens.  It’s still warm out here, in the still night air, but a different caliber. The moderate humidity acts as a sort of light, gentle blanket, offering a soothing illusion of safety.  Asra stays next to me, another layer of illusion in the spell I’m allowing wishful thinking to weave around me. 

Nadia stands by the railing, looking out over the moonlit garden.  “In three days’ time,” she muses to no one in particular. “There will be precious few safe havens from the revelry.”

Nahara stands next to her sister, folding her large hands on the rail.  “It was a surprise to receive your invitation. You never liked parties.”

“The people of Vesuvia live for the Masquerade.  And there hasn’t been one for three years. I’m told the markets are bustling since the announcement.”  Nadia pauses then turns the conversation to pragmatic concerns. “We did need something to inject some life into the economy.”

“Is that so?”  Navra whirls about, ending up facing me, bent down to my eye level and uncomfortably close.  “Do you live for it, Dema?” I stare at her in absolute terror. I have no idea how to answer the question, or which lie would be most appropriate.  Or maybe I should tell the truth that I don’t have the damnedest idea what it is that I live for? It might be a relief to speak the words.  

It takes Asra a moment to rescue me, but he manages.  “Oh, Dema and I met at the Masquerade. The year Nadia first came to the city, actually, nine years ago.”

_ Nine years! _

Nadia rubs the bridge of her nose and shakes her head.  “Nine years, has it really been that long? And how much has changed!”

“You seem a bit changed yourself, Didi.”  Nasmira rubs her hands together and catches Nahara’s eye.  The topic she plans to broach worries her.

“Yes, we have been meaning to ask you something, but we do not wish to embarrass you in front of others.”  Nahara looks over at Asra and me as she speaks to her sister and nods to us. A gesture that I think is both respectfully and apologetically.

Nadia turns around, leaning back against the railing.  It’s strange to see her in such a relaxed pose. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it in front of my magicians.”

“Fine.”  Nahara folds her arms across her chest.  “We have been talking, and we are concerned about this execution you have planned.”  

If possible, I like Nahara more than I did a moment before.  It’s a relief to have this very formidable woman as an ally. I make a mental note to erect a temple in her honor at the first possible moment.  If this conversation becomes the key to extracting Julian from runaway events, she’ll merit it. Maybe, just maybe, having her sisters here would give Nadia the boost in strength that Portia had hoped for in inviting them.

“We understand the justification, of course.”  Nasmira reaches out and touches her sister’s hand.  “But is there no system of legal trial in Vesuvia?”

Nadia turns her head to the side, looking over her shoulder at the garden, upper lip raised in disgust.  “There is not. One of the many failed institutions I plan to remedy. But I am not at all sure that I can accomplish that with so little time.”

My hand twitches at my side.  It’s my own fear, so not a new thought, but hearing Nadia expressing her sense of powerlessness directly reaches into my guts and twists them into a painful knot.  Asra catches the shift in mood and squeezes my knuckles.  

Nahara speaks again.  “And a public execution.  That strikes me as more revenge than justice.”  My plans for her temple double in size and splendor.

“Is there any doubt about the man’s guilt?”  Nasmira asks. “Truly, it would be an awful thing to execute an innocent.”  Maybe Nasmira needs a temple as well, or perhaps I can build a single temple with niches for both of them - a golden statue for Nahara and one of emeralds for Nasmira.

“I'm distressed to admit that there is.”  Nadia turns back to the garden and begins to gnaw on her thumbnail, uncharacteristically uncertain.  “My court assures me that he was caught red-handed, but I’ve been finding more and more reason to suspect that is not the whole story.”  

“Do you trust your courtiers?”  Navra joins Nadia at the railing and pulls her hand away from her mouth, just as one would do for a younger sibling with a habit that needed to be gently broken.  “When we were introduced to the Quaestor and the Praetor, I found them a bit . . . off. I am not at all comfortable with letting them direct the process. And just where is your Consul?”    

Nadia opens her mouth, then closes it awkwardly when she can’t immediately decide how to answer the question.  Perfectly on cue, Volta and Vulgora arrive on the portico covered in red grime and trailing a haze of sulfurous gunsmoke.  Volta skips with glee, I suspect more from the prospect of pleasing Nadia than whatever activities she and Vulgora are returning from.  “Countess, countess! Wonderful news!”  

“The decimation is a smashing success.”  Vulgora raises a clenched fist in the air.  Nahara shoots them what is quite possibly the least impressed look I have ever seen, and I add another panel to the iconography in my imagined temple of Nahara.  “I’ll have them all destroyed by the commencement night.”

Nasmira turns to Nadia, concern written on every feature.  “The decimation?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, sister.”  Nadia’s speech is uncharacteristically rapid.  I want to somehow push her to reveal our concerns about the return of the plague; her sisters should know.  But I’m not sure how to do so, tipping our hand in front of Vulgora and Volta would be a mistake.

Nadia proceeds with formal introductions.  “Sisters, allow me to present Procurator Volta and Pontifex Vulgora, esteemed members of the court of Vesuvia.  Volta, Vulgora, these are my sisters: Their Royal Majesties Nahara, Navra, and Nasmira, princesses of Prakra.”

Volta attempts a deep curtsy and nearly tumbles over her own feet.  She tried at least. Vulgora grants the princesses a half-bow that is almost certainly an insult to their social standing.  Nasmira nods in gracious acknowledgment. Nahara looks like she would prefer to school them in the court etiquette they so clearly lack, and Navra simply ignores them in favor of dreamily regarding the gardens.

“Did you retrieve any live specimens?”  Nadia follows Nasmira’s lead in ignoring their rudeness.

“I am afraid there are no remains to crunch upon - I mean to speak of - left.”  Volta seems genuinely distressed to disappoint her countess. A beetle works its way out from Vulgora’s sleeve, only to be crushed in their steel gauntlet.

  “. . . I see.  Well. I suppose that is wonderful news.”

“Is that Chandra?  Oh, Didi, I’m so glad that you still have her with you!”  Navra interrupts. The pearly owl flies around us, hovering near Nadia, but refusing to perch, either on her mistress’s shoulder or anywhere else.  She shrieks insistently, before taking flight toward the middle of the garden.

“What did Chandra say?” Asra asks.  

Nadia can speak with Chandra like Asra does Faust?  She has a familiar? I shouldn’t be surprised, not after having seen remains of whatever magic she had worked the night before in Lucio’s wing.

“There seems to be someone by the fountain.”  Nadia hesitates for a moment and then signals to the two guards posted further down the veranda.  They snap to attention. As a group, we take off into the garden, Nahara instinctively flanking Nadia, even with the guard clanking along behind us.  A raven circles overhead, before swooping down alongside me, crying mournfully. Is this the one I’ve seen hanging around Julian? Warning him of the guards tracking him through the city?  I don’t like what that portends.  

A tall figure kneels beside the fountain, dripping hands covering his face, a heavy dark overcoat hanging from his shoulders.  

Julian.

I start to run forward, only to be stopped by Asra’s hands grasping my upper arms.

Guards surround the clearing, and Julian stands, making no move to run.  His gaze meets mine, his one visible eye softening for a moment. I shake my head, mouthing “no” and “run” and “what the hell?”  He shakes his head, just slightly, then looks away from me. When he turns back, his gaze is cold and his mouth is schooled into a sneer.  

“Countess!”  He throws his arms out, hands empty, striking a pose - probably as much to bolster his own resolve as to be dramatic.  “Your guards have failed to find me, but after three years, I, Julian Devorak, have come to turn myself in for the murder of Count Lucio!”

Asra’s hands at my waist keep me from shouting, but only just.  I recover myself as the guards surround Julian and settle for fixing him with as dark of a glare as I can muster while biting my tongue.  One guard secures Julian’s hands behind him and shoves him back down on his knees. 

Nadia’s shocked gaze darts back and forth between the familiar faces of her sisters and Julian.  “Doctor Devorak?” Her voice is hesitant. This is the first time she’s seen him. The first time to put a face with any descriptions of the man that she might have recovered from her journals.  “You wish to turn yourself in?”

“What can I say?  Eventually you get tired of running from your fate.”

“And you wish to declare your guilt in the matter of my late husband’s murder.”

Julian starts to speak, only to be cut off by Vulgora’s angry shouts.  “How can he do anything else? We all saw him, running from the Count’s chambers while poor Lucio burned.  Right, Volta.”

Volta rubs her hands together anxiously.  “I did see him leaving.” 

Nadia doesn’t have many options.  “Very well.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and pauses, perhaps hoping that one of her sisters will suggest some elegant solution that she’s missed.  “Take him into custody. No need -” A long pause and a sigh as she realizes that she does need to be specific. “No need to be rough if he continues to cooperate.”

“No need?  He killed -”  Vulgora starts to protest, only to be cut off by Nahara. 

“Hold your tongue, Pontifex.”  She looks to be about ten seconds away from cuffing them.  “Your Countess has spoken.”

Asra keeps his arms around my waist, humming a tune I half recognize quietly in my ear as the guards lead Julian away.  Above us, both Chandra and Malak - because that is definitely Julian’s raven - circle in the sky, hooting and cawing mournfully.   

***

I maintain some semblance of composure until Asra and I make it back to my guest room.  Then I pick up a glass tumbler and pitch it into the empty fireplace, screaming in frustration as it shatters against the brickwork.

Ignoring the other tumbler, I pick up the bottle of whiskey and pull the stopper - there's a drink or two remaining.  Asra watches me with solemn eyes, leaning against the door. After I gulp down a couple of generous mouthfuls of whiskey, he takes the bottle from me and sets it aside, gently steering me into sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“I don't understand.  He, he wasn't planning anything like that.  Not when we parted.” I curl in on myself a little, shoulders tight, and look down at my upturned hands.

Asra sits down beside me, puts a cup of water in my hands, and wraps an arm around my shoulders.  “Ilya is nothing if not capricious.”

I lean against him and sniff.  He still smells of sandalwood, with some other spice over it. “I want to cry, but I'm worried that I'll mess up these fancy clothes.”

“Well, that's easy enough to fix.”

“I have no idea how Portia got me into this, much less how I’m going to get out of it.”

Asra looks at me with arched eyebrows then bursts into laughter that would be incongruent if not for the desperate edge to it.  “Are you asking for help?”

“I’m not trying to be seductive.”

“I know, sweetheart.”  He kisses the top of my head.  “It’s okay. Here.” He turns my shoulders and examines the fastenings running down my back.  “These are rather needlessly complex, but lovely. I can’t tell you just how splendid you looked tonight.”   He fidgets for a moment and then gets the clasp loose. The rest follow with less effort. He runs his hand along my spine, then back up.  “You’re very tense.”

“I’m worried!  And pissed off.”

He pushes the gown over my shoulders and rubs the muscles there.  “I feel several things about Ilya right now. One of which is a strong desire to punch him in the face.”

“He’d probably like that too much.”

“Point.”  He unties something, loosening the sash around my middle.  “Stand.” I do and with a twitch of his hand, the gown falls away, pooling around my feet on the floor.  His fingers linger along the curve of my hips. I turn slowly, and he leans forward, kissing my stomach, just above my navel, where the softness and the curve bother me the most.  “You’re beautiful.”

“Mmm...”  I sink down onto the bed again, pull my legs up beside me and lean against his shoulder.  “Can we just cuddle?”

“As long as I’m near you, I can be content.”  He stands, quickly undoing the multiple layers of his costume.  They fall away from his graceful body, joining my dress on the floor.  He gets back into bed next to me, draping a blanket over both of us. My slight smile as I snuggle against his chest surprises me, but I’ll take whatever seconds of happiness are granted.  

His heart, just under my ear, still doesn’t sound quite right, but perhaps, just maybe, a little stronger, more even than it did when I listened to it in the Magician’s realm.  I ran my hand down his left arm, twining my fingers in his, and cross one leg over both of his. I try to focus just on Asra, the experience of being this close to him, but my mind whirls back through the day, refusing to quiet.  The mark glowing on Asra’s chest, matching the one on Julian’s neck. Julian’s face descending into that pit. Nine years, Asra has known me, three that I can remember. And a raven crying mournfully that I can't banish from my head.    

“If he managed to get himself hanged? What do I do then?”

“Then you -”  Asra pauses, runs his fingers through my hair, and sighs.  “ _ We _ both grieve.”

I try to sleep.  Really. But Asra holding my body still isn't enough to let my mind still - not tonight, not this time.  I crawl out of his embrace, carefully as I can, hoping that I don't wake him. Wrap myself in a robe and creep to the window to sneak a cigarette from my bag because sometimes tobacco focuses my head enough that I can feel back in the tangents that have spun off the circles of my thoughts and drifted each in their direction, spiraling like smoke that drifts away when I try to catch it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowie zowie, sport fans! We've hit thirty chapters! And this is getting a bit unwieldy for a single work, so I'll be continuing with _A Long, Long Way to Go to Die_ this coming weekend. Tell your friends! The Romans! Your countrymen!
> 
> (If you're wondering just what Nadia and Valerius got up to in Lucio's chamber - fear not, that will be posted once it's ready, but I don't want to short change you with something sub par.)
> 
> I can't thank the folks who've stuck with me enough. You're the best! And you can always come say hi on Tumblr. I'm [@aria-i-adgio](https://aria-i-adagio.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Feel free to say hi on Tumblr @aria-i-adagio.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Just a substitute](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21805585) by [Aria_i_Adagio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_i_Adagio/pseuds/Aria_i_Adagio), [Verdin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdin/pseuds/Verdin)




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